Jack To The Future : A Random Chronicle
by Jennifer Lynn Weston
Summary: Suppose Jack found that Fountain of Youth, and it worked. What historical events might he have witnessed, or even participated in? Here's some possibilities. Posted in the order I think of them, rather than when they happened. Chapters are rated K - T.
1. An Actor's Life For Me

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

December 31, 1879, New York City

-

Acclaimed thespian Signor Brocolini, of the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company, was seated in a dressing room of a Fifth Avenue Theatre. The pretty English lady affixing his rakish black wig was, for once, being allowed to do so undisturbed, for the mustached actor was completely absorbed in the tome propped on his lap:

_"You like the sea, Captain?"_

_"Yes; I love it! The sea is everything. It covers seven-tenths of the terrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense desert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all sides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful existence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the 'Living Infinite', as one of your poets has said. In fact, Professor, Nature manifests herself in it by her three kingdoms, mineral, vegetable, and animal. The sea is the vast reservoir of Nature. The globe began with sea, so to speak; and who knows if it will not end with it? In it is supreme tranquility. The sea does not belong to despots. Upon its surface men can still exercise unjust laws, fight, tear one another to pieces, and be carried away with terrestrial horrors. But at thirty feet below its level, their reign ceases, their influence is quenched, and their power disappears. Ah! Sir, live- live in the bosom of the waters! There only is independence! There I recognize no masters! There I am free!... "_

"What on earth has you so entranced, Signor?"

"Hmm?" The addressed party looked to his left. His costar, John Handford Ryley, was settling into an adjacent chair to be made up as Major General Stanley. Jack could hardly imagine better casting for that role- Ryley resembled James Norrington enough to be his direct descendant.

The darker actor turned the book to display the title. "'Tis '20,000 Leagues Under The Sea', by Jules Verne. 'Been translated into English."

Ryley frowned a bit, vexing the lad who was attempting to powder his face. "Verne? That frog who writes sensationalized children's stories?"

"That talented French scribe who spins first-class adventure yarns, mate!"

Ryley refrained from correcting his colleague's grating speech patterns; Brocolini was no doubt getting into character for his performance. He'd certainly worked closely enough with Mr. Gilbert, to get the dialog and mannerisms 'just right.'

Jack was still singing the praises of Verne's vision. "Imagine travelin' the seven seas in an underwater ship with windows. What grand sights ta be seen down theer!"

"Rocks and fishes, I would think," Ryley sniffed.

"An' gettin' inta a suit ta let ya walk outside said ship, on the very floor of the ocean!"

The taller actor looked alarmed. "Why would anybody want to do that? They'd most likely be eaten by sharks!"

Sparrow/ Signor sighed, mentally recalculating the odds of this limp-wristed sod being related to Norrington. Ryley might have similar looks and poise, but no trace of the Commodore's steel. Such staunch men seemed to be getting rarer with each passing decade. Jack regretted he hadn't tried to befriend James when he'd had the chance.

"Even you must appreciate the advantage of usin' such technology to retrieve treasure, Johnny. I meself know- that is, I've heard tell about- the locale of several wrecks that went down with tons o' shine aboard."

John Ryley appeared amused. "So it's hidden gold on your mind now? You've really immersed yourself into this role, Signor."

"I suppose I have," the older actor conceded, with an apt piratey grin.

They were interrupted by the bustling entrance of Bridget the script girl. The sturdy teenager (who'd always reminded Jack of a young heifer, in a good way) pushed aside her brick-red braids and unfolded a paper sheet.

"Mr. Sullivan wants me to go over that introductory song with you again, Mr. Brocolini. Just to make sure you know all the words."

"Blow a line once, an' they never let ya forget it," Jack grumbled. He'd already decided he wasn't going to pursue this profession for more than one lifetime- too bloody many people telling him what to do. But for now, he was still having fun. Raking in plentiful money and public adulation, just for 'playing pretend', was almost as satisfying as pulling off a successful scam. Anyway, it would be at least a minor crime to refrain from showing off what that last dip in the Fountain had done for his singing voice.

"Verra well, Bridget. From the top?" At her nod, Jack sat up straight in the chair, took a deep breath, and sang in a ringing baritone:

"Oh, better far to live and die  
Under the brave black flag I fly,  
Than play a sanctimonious part  
With a pirate head and a pirate heart!  
Away to the cheating world go you  
Where pirates all are well-to-do,  
But I'll be true to the song I sing,  
And live and die a Pirate King!

For I am a Pirate King!  
And it is, it is a glorious thing  
To be a Pirate King!

When I sally forth to seek my prey  
I help myself in a royal way,  
I sink a few more ships, it's true,  
Than a well-bred monarch ought to do!  
But many a king on a first-class throne,  
If he wants to call his crown his own,  
Must manage somehow to get through  
More dirty work than ever I do!

For I am a Pirate King!  
And it is, it is a glorious thing  
To be a Pirate King!"

---

FINIS

---

The literary quote is from Jules Verne's _20,000 Leagues Under The Sea_, originally _Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers_, first published in 1870 France.

The lyrics at to 'Oh, Better Far To Live And Die', from the operetta _The Pirates of Penzance_ (music by Arthur Sullivan, libretto by W. S. Gilbert), which had it's American debut on the date and locale mentioned above.

Gilbert and Sullivan's flamboyant and libidinous Pirate King has been fingered as one of the inspirations for Captain Jack Sparrow. But it has occurred to me: if Jack actually found that fountain, it may have happened the other way around.


	2. It Was Sad When That Ship Went Down

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

April 15, 1912, North Atlantic Ocean

-

Nothing Jack had witnessed over the course of three adventurous lifetimes had affected him quite like this. Not because he had, for one moment, believed that bloody ship was unsinkable- if no wooden vessel ever had been, no metal ship ever would be. And certainly not because he'd never witnessed death before. He had, all too often. Singular and plural. Men, women, even a few children.

It wasn't even because the victims were completely undeserving of their fate, and himself powerless to avert it. That, too, was something he'd experienced previously.

It was the sheer volume of their numbers which so horrified him. There must be several hundred people massed on that tilting deck, screaming and calling for help- he could hear them plainly even from this distance.

The former pirate- currently going by the name Abraham Lincoln Salomon- had obeyed the initial call for the first-class passengers to get into the lifeboats. Not because he'd believed, then, that his safety was actually threatened; he'd just felt in a mood to be closer to the ocean, and saw this 'precautionary' launch as an opportunity. But what began as a lark quickly turned nightmarish, as it become clear the looming hulk of ship was listing badly... was, in fact, in the process of going down.

Far worse: though a number of other lifeboats had been launched, there'd been none for the past quarter-hour, yet there were obviously numerous souls still aboard. Was it really possible that behemoth vessel hadn't been equipped with sufficient survival gear?

Sparrow wondered if he was the only one who fully realized what was about to happen. He glanced over his fellow lifeboat passengers. Most of the finely dressed women, and a few of the equally elegant men, were clearly distressed- one young lass was sobbing against her companion's shoulder, another quietly wept over her two huddled children. Several more males were displaying terse anguish, or determined stoicism. But some, it seemed, were hardly paying attention. Including the rotund sod seated on Jack's right, who, having located a cigar in the depths of his greatcoat pocket, was tapping Jack's sleeve.

"Pardon me- do you have a light?"

Jack did. "No." His return gaze flashed disgust. "How can ye be thinkin' about that, when a bloody huge lot o' people are about ta drown right in front of our eyes?!"

The man flinched, with resentment more than guilt. "My dear fellow, abstaining from a smoke shall not do a one of them the slightest bit of good." He deigned to glance in the direction of the less-fortunate passengers. "It is, of course, most regrettable..."

"Regrettable?!" Jack snapped. "It's a damned catastrophe! Might even be murder by negligence!"

"My good man, let us not presume that anything could have been done to prevent the loss of life."

"I bloody well don't have ta 'presume' they could've fit at least twenty more bodies inta this very boat- I can see it fer meself!" Jack waved an accusatory arm to encompass their criminally uncrowded vessel. He had abandoned all pretense of upper-crust speech patterns, but the other didn't seem to notice.

"No doubt, once a full investigation is complete, it shall be revealed there was no way to anticipate the space would be needed." The jowly sod nodded towards the foundering hulk's teaming decks. "It may be that some of those ruffians cast the remaining lifeboats adrift."

"What- toss away theer only hope o' life? How can ya think they'd do any such thing??"

"There is no accounting for what the lower classes been known to do, sir," the fat rotter replied, in such a supercilious tone Jack wanted to lunge at him. He might have, if somebody hadn't gripped his left arm.

Sparrow whirled on the grabber, only to confront a square, weathered visage, bearing strong resemblance to that of Joshamee Gibbs. He recognized Victor Robbins, valet to the fop in the second cabin down from Jack's.

"Steady now, Mr. Salomon. Instigating a donnybrook on this boat won't help anyone, either." That firm commonsense voice- also reminiscent of Josh- was perhaps the only thing capable of cooling Sparrow's ire. He forced himself to settle.

Another passenger lit the damned blighter's cigar, with a obviously costly gold lighter. Just the sort of shiny trinket that would normally draw Jack's eye, but on this occasion he turned his shoulder to it.

Though now a wealthy man, the ex-pirate had never really felt at ease amongst the upper crust. He'd bought a first-class ticket for this crossing, planning to partake of the luxuriant cabin facilities and well-stocked dining room, but also to sneak down into steerage for the more-enjoyable company there. He'd never anticipated encountering such a division of privilege as this. Even to someone with his take-what-you-can ethics, it was obscene.

Oh, Jack had seen men do plentiful harm to each other- done some himself, throughout his long-ago pirating years. But that was usually in heat of combat, or over the distance afforded by artillery fire, and always with something to be gained or defended. This near-indifference- by well-off people, no less- to the destruction of harmless folk they'd shared a ship with... that was truly alien to him. He'd never felt quite so isolated in a crowd as he did right now.

An alarming new movement snagged Jack's eye: the great ship's stern was tilting, rising slowly out of the water. Cries from the trapped passengers rose at the same pace. There was an increasing din of groaning and splintering, eclipsing all other noises, until, with a final horrific Crack, the stern crashed back down onto the surface.

Jack's jaw clenched as he realized the implications. He stood and pushed his way to the lifeboat's stern, where the uniformed ship's officer was grimly watching the spectacle. Sparrow tapped the young man's leg. "We've got plenty of extra space- can we not try ta go back ta fish some of those passengers from the water?"

The officer's face, though stiff with grief, was unyielding. "I'm sorry, sir, but we have to keep our distance. When that ship goes under, she'll drag down any..."

"Dammit, man, did ya not see what jus' happened?? The bloody ship's broke in two! She won't produce enough suction ta endanger a dinghy!"

"I can't risk it. My first responsibility is to the safety of the passengers aboard this boat! In any case..." the other's voice darkened, "...the water being cold as it is, it's most unlikely we'll be able to reach anyone in time to save them. I am truly sorry, sir." The bloke at least had the decency to look like he meant it. "Now please do sit down. There's nothing to be gained by rocking the boat."

/ No, of course theer's not. Whatever was I thinkin'! /

Sparrow felt distinctly nauseous, as he elbowed his way back to his seat. The _Titanic's_ severed stern tilted again, almost to vertical, then began it's final decent. Most of the lifeboat occupants shut their eyes or turned their heads away, as the last fragment of the great liner slid into the sea for good.

But Jack looked squarely at that spot, covering neither eyes nor ears against the distant splashes and plaintive cries of dying people. Not even as quiet gradually descended, with all it's terrible implications.

It was the least Jack felt he should do, seeing how he was still alive.

---

FINIS


	3. Full Speed Ahead!

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

August 5, 1864, off the coast of Alabama

---

Rear Admiral David Glasgow Farragut (formerly Jack Sparrow) stood on the quarterdeck of the Union flagship USS Hartford, peering through a spyglass as his vessel approached the mouth of Mobile Bay. The other vessels under his command- fourteen more masted ships, four ironclads and several gunboats- were in formation behind him, watching for word on how to proceed. Every Union man knew that the greatest danger here was what they couldn't see.

Mobile was the last large Confederate port still open on the Gulf of Mexico; a vital access point for the South's blockade runners. Knowing how vital it was to maintain this supply line, the rebs had mined the Bay entrance with torpedoes; barrels packed with explosive powder, tethered just below the water's surface. Almost impossible to detect, until a ship ran into one and got a sizable portion of her hull blown off.

Farragut's lips quirked. He couldn't deny a certain admiration for the blighter who'd thought up that devilishly cunning device, even if said blighter was making his life difficult. Very probably a pirate, or at least a direct descendant- perhaps related to one of his own former colleagues.

Which was likely true of those cheeky blockade runners, too. Jack appreciated their audacity, and might have been tempted to join their number if he didn't so abhor the cause they supported. Nobody had any right to regard another human as property.

To his left, his First Officer frowned with concern as he regarded the sandbar-dotted coastline. Farragut assured him, "I drew the maps of this area myself, Mr. Joucett."

"I've every confidence in your ability to navigate it, sir," the First replied, tugging at the collar of his blue wool jacket. Like his shorter darker commander, Joucett would have preferred to do without the uniform. He was a merchant seaman who'd volunteered for service because he believed in the strength of Union. If States were permitted to secede, what was to stop this nation from breaking into pieces too small to defend their sovereignty? And once some foreign power began to take advantage, what would prevent it's seizing everything? That wasn't what his grandfather had died for at Yorktown.

Farragut bestowed a fond half-smile on his subordinate; a rock-steady, loyal bloke who could be trusted to obey even daft-sounding orders. Very much like old Bootstrap Bill. 'Even resembled him a bit, with that dark-brown queue and squared jaw.

Joucett had been one of his top choices when Farragut hand-picked the crew of the Hartford- such being the privilege of the First Senior Officer of the United States Navy. By now, his men had fought enough campaigns with him to be accustomed to their commander's eccentricities (usually attributed to his obvious half-Spanish ancestry), and trusting of his combat judgment. All to the good, since he'd undoubtedly be asking much of them before this day's business was concluded.

"Think we can win this one, Admiral?"

"We have no choice, Mr. Joucett. Our Commander-in-Chief has made it clear; he needs us to win a decisive victory to boost his popularity an' assure his reelection." Farragut shook his head. "Politicians!"

But he said it with less than his usual contempt. He'd conducted several strategy sessions with Mr. Lincoln, and found him far more tolerable- even likable- than most in his profession. Perhaps that rail-splitter's humble origins gave him a grounded outlook; the man was entirely clear on the fact that wars involved killing. And, he could tell the kind of jokes Sparrow appreciated. Even more important; this President had resisted all demands for David Farragut's ouster, after that disastrous failed gamble at Port Hudson.

As though reading his mind, Joucett commented, "Abe did stand by you when not many others did."

"True enough. 'Tis helpful to know he trusts my expertise enough to tolerate my occasional meanders from the manual." / As he should. I did assume my first command at age twelve, in this life as well as my previous one. / "This is as good a day as any to make my repayment to Father Abraham." With narrowed eyes, Farragut added, "At least we can be sure the ground troops are where they're supposed to be, this time."

/ Though I might have succeeded even without 'em, if that bloody flotilla had maneuvered the way I instructed. Perdition's flames take such overcautious underlings- ask 'em to follow any strategy they've not tried before, an' they start quiverin' like landlubbers in a gale! I'd call 'em 'faint-hearted wenches', but that'd be an insult to the wenches. /

After all, Jack had known at least three females who'd possessed greater boldness than any Captain currently in his fleet. Were he able to now, Jack would gladly trade any one of the former for a whole brace of the latter. But since none of those gallant ladies were available, he'd have to make do with what he had. And for that, he needed to get a proper view of the Bay.

"Mr. Joucett, take the wheel."

The tall First Mate stepped to relieve the helmsman. "Yessir."

Rear Admiral Farragut descended to the deck, found a speaking trumpet and rope to tuck under his uniform belt, and grabbed hold of a ratline. A nearby deck hand muttered, "Crazy Spaniard."

"Half-Spaniard!" his commander barked, just to make the rotter jump. Every dip into the Fountain granted a different bonus gift; his most-recent one was acute hearing.

Farragut climbed steadily up to topgallant height, where he used the rope to lash himself to the swaying mast. Bracing himself against the wind, he plunged one hand deep into a seldom-used coat pocket, extracting an octagonal object. This device had become more temperamental over the years. Perhaps it's magical component was impermanent, or the physical parts were wearing out. So he made a point to use it only in situations of acute need.

Which this certainly was. Everything depended on his finding a safe route into the Bay, avoiding both shoals and human-devised traps. Flipping the compass open, he concentrated. "I know what I want..."

The needle spun about, trembled, and steadied- pointing as firmly as he'd ever seen. Farragut yelled down to his crew. "Seven degrees to port, Mr. Joucett! Full canvas, you dogs!"

As the crew scrambled to obey, Farragut yanked the calling trumpet from his belt and shouted orders to the closest following ship- the USS Brooklyn- to pass down the line. Until they were clear of the shoal area, every vessel was to trace the Hartford's exact course.

The flotilla started lining up to follow, but the thrice-cursed fool in charge of the Tecumseh either didn't hear properly or didn't respond in time. That ironclad veered from the line, and went up in a mighty explosion. Farragut swore angrily as he watched the stricken vessel founder. He'd never had complete faith in those unsightly metal ships.

To his even greater ire, certain of his fleet appeared cowed by that spectacle; he saw sails being lowered. The Rear Admiral snatched up his calling trumpet and shouted to the Brooklyn's captain.

"What's The Trouble?!"

Captain Drayton shouted back through his own trumpet. "Torpedoes, Sir!"

"Damn the torpedoes!" bellowed Jack. / By the Powers! If this lot is too craven to follow orders, I'll finish this campaign all by my onesies! /

"Four bells! Captain Drayton, go ahead! Joucett- Full Speed!"

"Aye-Aye!" Stalwart Mr. Joucett steered the ship as ordered, bells pealing, colors flapping noisily. The Hartford fearlessly charged past the sandbars and straight towards the bay entrance, seemingly invincible.

Farragut glanced back. To his considerable gratification, the Hartford's example had apparently emboldened the others. Every remaining ship was following in her wake, obediently keeping the same course.

Jack turned his attention to fore, his glare shifting between the two hulking batteries flanking the bay entrance. Fort Morgan, coming up on the starboard side, and Fort Gaines, much further to port. Between the two, Admiral Buchanan's squadron also awaited, guns at the ready below bright Confederate flags.

But the Admiral knew none of them would be any match for his forces. The Union captains were brave enough in familiar engagements... a bit hesitant about rushing into invisible perils, but they'd soon be past those. Once they'd cleared treacherous minefield, his subordinates would acquit themselves well.

Victory would be theirs- he was certain of it! Farragut's smile stretched from ear to ear, dark eyes aglow, feeling the same savage exhalation he'd known in the Battle of the Maelstrom.

"This'll earn me a place in the history books, fer bloody sure!"

---

FINIS


	4. Give My Regards To The Scarlet Pimpernel

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

1789, Honfleur harbor at the mouth of Seine River, France

--

Edward Sparrow, Captain of the merchant ship Black Bess, was not happy.

He was, in fact, storming the deck between the red-capped officials and their contingent of armed guards, ranting in broken French.

"All the way from Ireland I come, to deliver this wool cargo as I am instructed, and now you tell me my buyer has been arrested? That I must submit to having my ship searched, then return home with no profit to show? I may not sell even enough to recoup my expenses?? I suppose this new Social Order of yours intends to do away with clothing, then? Ha! I should like to see how you manage when winter comes!"

The grim-faced officials ignored him. When their subordinates emerged from below decks, Captain Sparrow flailed his arms harder, to conceal how intently he was listening in. And how very relieved he was, when the searchers reported there was, indeed, nothing in the hold but wool bales.

"You may leave port now, Capitaine," was all the arrogant Head Git said. Sparrow glared as the delegation filed off his ship. The moment they were clear, he bellowed orders to cast off. Stalking aft, he paused beside a tense young deckhand, tugging a rope with uncalloused hands whilst anxiously eyeing the hatch.

"Steady, Anton- theer still watchin'. It won't allay theer suspicions a bit if they see someone bolt below." Sparrow raised eyes to the rigging. "Yer Mum and the others'll be fine. I've stowed away in a wool bale meself. The smell is bloody awful, but it does let the air in."

Leaving the whelp to his work, Edward climbed the stairs to take the wheel. He guided his ship from it's mooring, through the busy harbor towards the mouth of the Seine. Having established there was no sign of pursuit, he called down, "All right, Mr. Racine; you may go let 'em out. Jus' make sure everyone stays below deck."

As the boy hurried down the hatchway, Sparrow addressed his blond bo'sun. "Mr. Van Pelt, please assist him. You may offer hardtack and water to our guests, but make it clear; anyone who can't stomach that fare ain't really hungry. No point in givin' 'em any false impressions about shipboard life." The big Dutchman grunted and followed the lad.

Half an hour later, the river's mouth had fallen astern. Sparrow took the extra precaution of veering northwest, 'til the French coast was just a thin greenish line under overcast sky. He handed the wheel over to First Officer Tilak, descended to the deck and called down the hatch.

"Mr. Van Pelt, would you please escort all our guests topside? There's a few things I need to explain to 'em."

He soon heard several sets of feet coming up the stairs, moving in that stumbling manner which so reliably identified landlubbers. Anton emerged first, assisting his mother, Marguerite Racine (nee Genet.) The middle-aged widow wore a plain dark dress, festooned with bits of fleece- which, Edward knew, would take a couple days to pick off. But the woman was cheerful enough, favoring the Captain with a heartwarming smile. For a moment, he was strongly reminded of the sunny little girl he'd known, decades ago.

The people following her, though dressed in much finer clothes, appeared far more worn-out and bedraggled. Eight ladies of variant ages, five small children, and three gentlemen too old to pass as sailors. The whole lot were covered with the same wool bits. All were comely, refined, and visibly nervous.

Four of the on-deck 'seamen' hastened to join them, making low, anxious inquiries in French. The group clustered at the ship's waist- a flock of tired, ill-at-ease swans, among disdainful sea hawks.

The Captain doffed his scarlet-plumed hat and bowed extravagantly.  
"Monsieurs, Madames, Mademoiselles and whelps; welcome aboard the Black Bess! I am Captain Edward Sparrow, of whom Madame Racine has no doubt told you."

Marguerite, clearly the least afraid, nodded affirmatively. The English-speakers among the refugees quickly translated for the others; there was hopeful murmuring and general focusing on the Captain.

Sparrow continued. "I can promise you, ye'll have naught ta be afraid of aboard my ship. This bein' a merchant vessel, you'll be required ta contribute such labors as ye can through the crossin', but ye'll not be subjected to harsh disciplines. And, despite any scurrilous rumors ye may have heard, there'll be no dishonorable demands made of anyone. Man or woman."

More reassured chattering in French, as Sparrow sent brief warning glances to certain of his crewmen.

"I am aware you lot had a rather harrowin' time gettin' this far, so I'll not be troublin' you further fer now. Yer luggage shall be distributed, and your sleepin' arrangements seen to, before nightfall. For the next few hours, feel free ta relax on me deck an' air out the woolen smell. Jus' keep clear of anyone workin'."

The relieved group issued a chorus of "Merci beaucoup"s, then dispersed to seek out whatever comfortable places could be found. Most ended up slumped against the quarterdeck base, or leaning wearily against the railings.

Madame Racine followed the Captain as he ascended back to the steering station. "Monsieur Sparrow, I am most grateful!"

Edward gave the iron-coiffed matron a close-lipped smile, not wanting to show his too-familiar teeth quite yet. "Glad to assist, Madame. My Da has told me all about the good service yer Mum, and you, provided his hair fer so many years on Tortuga. I regard this as appropriate reciprocation... even if you did bring along rather more 'family' than expected." He fluttered a hand over the populous deck.

"Je suis désolé, Capitaine- I know I impose. But how could I turn zem away? All zere lives, zey are cared for like children- zey had no idea what to do!"

"Didn't mean to imply you shouldn't have, luv. Aristocrats ain't my most-favorite people, but none o' these heads look worthy of bein' loped off." He glanced over all the pretty, haggard faces. "Though, fer folk that've just been snatched from the jaws of death, they seem awfully glum."

"You must have patience with zem, Monsieur Sparrow. Zey have had to leave everything zey knew behind. Even zer names."

Edward grimaced. "No need ta tell me how hard that can be. Even when you've got a choice about it."

"I have told zem, zey should be glad zey are out of France alive. But it will be much time before zey feel... how you say? Homely."

"I think you mean 'at home'- I don't believe this lot could manage 'homely' if they tried. Which reminds me..." The Captain got serious. "It would be highly advisable, Madame, if you could persuade your former customers to make a gesture of appreciation towards my crew, by contributing any spare jewelry or gold they might be carrying in their luggage. I've given strict orders that you're to be treated as guests, but, these are sailors. An' even with fair winds, it'll be a long trip to New Orleans."

The lady understood. "A bribe, to persuade zem to behave. I shall talk to my friends, Monsieur." The woman reached to the back of her neck, unclasping a small gold crucifix. "Here ez my part."

Sparrow grinned as his hand closed over the offering, gauging it's value from the heft. "For a Parisian hairdresser, you are commendably wise to the ways of the world, Marguerite. It would seem you did gain some benefit from your childhood in Tortuga."

The woman's expression became distant, and not entirely regretful. "Et was not all as bad, Capitaine. I could not go outside home without Monsieur Roche', but zer were some good people. Your father, he was très kind to us. And was so..." Madame Racine paused, studying him closely. "Pardon, but ez so much, you look like him."

"I shall take that as a great compliment!" Edward exclaimed, a bit loudly.

"Your beard, it ez more large."

Sparrow stroked that full, chestnut growth. "Aye! Drinkin' the right water'll do that fer a bloke."

"But your face- so much! You have even..." She raised a finger to her left eyebrow.

Sparrow touched the same spot on his own brow. "Ah, that. 'Tis no coincidence at all, darlin'. There was a time, as a child, when I wanted to be like my Da in every way. Even wanted the same scars. So, this one occasion I got hold of a straight razor, and..." He mimed cutting, to Marguerite's disconcertment. "I was immediately sorry, of course. But not so sorry as when Mum saw what I'd done."

Marguerite looked wistful again. "I hear something, Monsieur, about your father. How he dies. I do not think ez true."

"There's a number of tales in circulation about that, some quite sensationalized. But you shouldn't concern yourself about any of 'em. I'm very sure that, however Jack Sparrow cashed in his chips, it was a way of his own choosing." Edward averted his face to conceal a knowing smirk.

The former Miss Genet stepped quite close, studying her rescuer's shoulder-length black hair, whipping lightly under the hat brim. "Capitaine, you would like me to braid your hair? I make you look just like your father."

/ That would be the one big problem! / Jack's mouth quirked as he debated. / But it's not very likely she'd guess, is it? /

"I may accept your offer, Madame. I shall think on it and let you know."

She noticed something on deck, and smiled slyly. "But, you maybe do not need my help." Edward followed her gaze, to the amber-haired chit near the mizzenmast who'd just hastily turned her head away. "The way Mademoiselle Paulette looks at you... she thinks you are très beau."

"Mademoiselle has très good taste." Jack discretely examined the slender young woman, lounging gracefully on a rope coil. Bearing striking similarity to a certain Governor's daughter he'd once known.

/ She's young enough to be your granddaughter, / protested one of his shoulder voices. But it was overruled by the other; / You don't haveta count the years that way anymore. /

"A gentlemen, he does not force attentions on Mademoiselles. But he ez allowed to accept attentions from zem, yes?" Marguerite teased.

"Quite correct, Madame."

With a last bright glance, Marguerite returned the the deck. The sun peeked out from a cloud bank, making the sea sparkle.

From his vantage, Edward could see at least that two more of the refugees were starting to come alive. The woman with the brown ringlets, and the man who looked like a dandified scarecrow, were leaning over the rail, exclaiming over something they saw near the base of the bow. Jack stepped to check it, grinning when he recognized the sleek, gray-finned bodies riding the Black Bess' pressure wave.

He called to the two. "Tels sont des dauphins- c'est un bon présage!" ("Those are dolphins- it's a good omen!")

The delighted couple began gesturing at the creatures. Soon the children were trotting over, eager to take their own look.

Edward Sparrow spun the wheel a bit, cheerily humming a favorite old tune. He had a strong feeling that this voyage was going to go just fine.

---

FINIS


	5. Avenging Angel

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

November 20, 1888, London, England

-

Big Ben rang out a single loud chime. 1 AM.

The narrow, shabby streets of the Whitechapel district were half-smothered in the usual miasma of fog and industrial smoke, fitfully illuminated by gas lamps. Here the Predator walked, quite at home. On the hunt. At this hour, among these chill unpatrolled byways, he could do as he wanted.

Most of what he wanted was accessible during day-lit hours, but now even the Forbidden was within his reach. An unholy thrum of anticipation warmed him from chin to knees. He was sure that rare thrill would be his again, before this night was over- that spurting red exhilaration, such as his milksop peers never dared dream of.

That trill was all the more keenly felt as the stalk became more challenging. His preferred prey was getting more wary- the inevitable, but acceptable, price of publicity. But just as hunger eventually coaxed even the most scared rabbits from their safe warrens, similar need would drive his quarry onto these familiar night streets, into this coal-fug jungle where he held all the advantages.

As he reached the end of the block, he spotted her; a slim figure of medium height, lingering on the next street corner down. Her flimsy pastel skirt glinted- made of that showy fabric favored by whores. Pomaded pale hair was topped with a useless lacy bonnet. The folded woolen shawl was her only concession to the November cold.

The Predator bared his teeth, and started towards her. The doxie looked at him, wavered, then turned on her heel and darted from sight around the corner. Without doubt, these filthy trollops spooked more readily. But it was already too late for this one.

He reached the corner, just in time to see the strumpet duck into an alleyway. He grinned again, adrenaline starting to burn his veins. Abandoning pretense, he broke into a run, turned down that same narrow passage. The glimmering figure was straight ahead; she'd abandoned her useless attempt to flee and was turning to confront him. He sped up, hand seizing the knife from his belt. The woman flung her pale shawl aside as he closed, raising bared metal for the first blow...

Great surprise- his strike clanged hard against another blade, far longer than his own.

Greater surprise- with practiced skill, the blocked knife was twisted from his grip.

Terrible surprise- a savage blow, driven with unwomanly strength, piercing deep into his midsection! His own, unprecedented scream was quickly stifled by the foolish lace bonnet, shoved against his mouth. A masculine voice snarled, "That's fer you, Lizzie!"

More searing agony, as the sharp edge tore out of him. It's welder sprang back, dripping weapon held to the fore, high hair askew. The dress bodice, yanked halfway off, exposed a hard-breathing male chest.

The astonished Predator staggered sideways, slamming into the rough brick wall. He clamped one hand against the impossibly huge wound. Familiar hot liquid streamed out... but from his own torso. Leaving another matter in no doubt.

He tried, hard, to glare at his murderer, but was again outmatched. A black-eyed shark might have been glaring back.

The stricken wretch's words were a ragged groan. "Howww...? Whyyyy...?"

The other started to wipe his blade- a short cutlass- against the fair skirt. His implacable stare never wavered.

"Ta answer yer Lordship's first question; I've been pursuin' my own investigation since you killed Liz Stride. See, I have access to that social strata that ain't so willin' ta talk to Scotland Yard. Not that I scorn police evidence. I exploited my natural resemblance to a force member- one Inspector Abberline- ta sneak a look at theer forensic files. That's where I picked up certain clues that'd only be noticed by someone with my familiarity with yer disreputable clan. So I started keepin' a watch on yer Lordship's nocturnal comings an' goings. As it happened, tonight I finally managed ta place meself in yer path just right." With the very voice of contempt, he finished, "I'd no intention of trustin' the British court system ta deliver justice to the likes of you!"

The Predator slumped, from a cause other than blood loss. To be found out, and entrapped, by a mere commoner... For a moment, he was actually glad he'd not live to see that in the press. His greatcoat made a wet rasping noise as he slide down the damp wall. The smaller man stepped to loom over him.

"Now as to yer other inquiry: firstly, I knew Elizabeth Stride, aka Long Liz. She weren't a bad sort at all. Didn't come close ta deservin' the end you gave her." His eyes narrowed with, if possible, even more hostility. "I've never understood you rotters who consider a whore ta be fair game fer any abuse. 'Don't suppose it's ever occurred to you: you could've ended up in the same profession, if you'd happened to've been born into unmonied circumstances.

"Secondly... " The speaker yanked off the frazzled wig, giving his victim a clear view of his clean-shaven face. "You may regard this as a final settlin' of a very old score."

Even in the sparse light, something about those angular features, combined with that intense dark stare, registered. The brute's dying eyes bulged with impotent fury, wide fingers clawing at the mortar. "You're...!"

"Aye, I am! So you can perceive the family resemblance. Regrettably, I can say the same regardin' you!" The smaller man spat. "I'd scarce of thought it possible, but you've turned out an even viler bastard than yer great-great-great granddad!"

Animated with rage, the man lurched toward his ancient enemy- but only succeeded in pitching himself face down into the dirt. Blood gushed from his mouth, mingling with the alleyway filth. His assailant met his clouding eye cloud without pity.

"I'll deliver an anonymous message to the Yard, tellin' 'em where ta collect yer carcass. Once theer investigation's focused on the right target, 'tis probable even they can figure out you're the 'Leather Apron' they've been lookin' fer. But you needn't worry 'bout any much-deserved damage to yer family's image. Bein' loyal servants of the Crown, them bobbies'll likely conceal this as best they can- make it look like you died in a carriage crash, or some such rubbish." Again, the voice dripped scorn. "Can't besmirch the reputation of England's sacred aristocracy, now can we? Yer murder spree'll probably remain officially unsolved fer years. Maybe fer always. But it is over."

The monster on the ground did not answer; just twitched like a stabbed lizard. The standing man peeled off his red-splotched frock, extending it over his prostrate quarry.

"There is one more thing, Mr. Jack the Ripper. I don't much appreciate yer slanderous usage of my name."

Jack Sparrow dropped the stained garment over the Predator's face, letting the evil man suck his last breath through the blood-soaked fabric. "That's ta reduce the shock a bit, should some unfortunate civilian come across you first. Better consideration 'en you ever showed. An' now; I shall bid you a Good Evenin', sir!"

Sparrow sheathed his sword close against his side, and retrieved the fallen shawl, winding it about himself like a sari. Hardly conventional attire, but his hotel was no doubt used to seeing it's clientele return from nocturnal outings in odd states of dress.

He turned and stalked from the alley, sparing no backward glance to the mortal remains of Cutler Beckett's last descendant.

---

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

London's famous Clock Tower, in operation since 1854, is popularly known as Big Ben (though, strictly speaking, that's the name of it's huge chiming bell.)

Scotland Yard, now called New Scotland Yard, has been London's metropolitan police force since 1829. One of their most famous investigations was of the 'Whitechapel murders'- the brutal stabbing deaths of at least five prostitutes, from August to November, 1888. These have been attributed to a never-identified person who sent taunting messages- and sometimes physical evidence- to London news reporters, signing himself as 'Jack the Ripper.'

Recently unclassified Scotland Yard documents reveal that their investigation of these murders was virtually halted within two months of the last 'canonical' killing- that of Mary Jane Kelly on November 9, 1888. One interpretation is, the investigators knew the culprit was no longer at large, but decided not to publicize their reasons for believing so. This has fueled speculation that the guilty party was actually caught, but, having some connection with English nobility- possibly even the Royal family- was deemed worthy of having his identity concealed. Officially, the case remains Unsolved.


	6. On The Road

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

August 8, 1969, Highway 163, Utah, USA

-

'Monument Valley is part of the Colorado Plateau. The floor is largely Cutler Red siltstone, or its sand, deposited by the meandering rivers which originally carved the valley. The valley's striking reddish color is produced by iron oxide, exposed in the weathered siltstone. The darker, blue-gray rocks in the valley get their hue from manganese oxide. The buttes are clearly stratified, with three principal layers...'

Jack didn't bother reading any further down the informational placard. The visuals here really spoke for themselves.

He leaned back against the wooden kiosk support, drinking in the view as he sipped from his canteen. The crimson landscape was nearly as flat as a becalmed ocean, between those several huge land masses rising over it like full-canvassed ships. Several even odder-looking protuberances stood beside those; nearly as tall, but skinny as bare masts...

Jack frowned, pondering his own description. Ocean. Ships. Masts.

"Probably means I should be gettin' back to sea," he muttered. And added, "Not that this's been time wasted."

No, it definitely hadn't been that. He had visited a lot of new places, seen many magnificent things, enjoyed some pleasant company. All (for once) without any serious mishaps.

Oh, he'd had to wrestle with some disagreeable memories whilst perusing White Sands. And there'd been that incident in Vegas, when he'd been caught with that extra ace and had to make a fast & messy exit through the kitchens. But nothing to ruin the fun, eh?

He'd long heard about the wonderful sights in the southwestern United Stares, but had balked at going to see them, due to the long inland travel required. The invention of Mr. Ford's fast conveyance, and laying of hard-paved roads to allow for their speediest travel, sharpened the appeal- for some decades now, it'd been possible to cross from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast in mere days.

The final impetus had come when he'd been obliged to steer his latest little boat, the Leaping Lizzie, into San Francisco Bay with a violently coughing engine. His original intent was to get it repaired, then leave the same way he'd come. But he was informed by the harbor mechanic that the malfunction was so fundamental, it would be more practical to buy a new boat. The workings of engines not being his forté, Jack pretty much had to take the man's word for it. (Oh, he knew that some of these mechanics must be taking advantage of his obvious inexpertise and deep pockets... but he'd been there himself, hadn't he?)

He'd established there were plenty of boats for sale in that very Bay, but Jack had a strong preference for making such purchases in the vicinity of the Caribbean. It was no more rational than ol' Gibbs' plethora of superstitions... still, the habit seemed to've served him well. After due consideration, Sparrow decided he'd make a cross-country journey from California to Florida, using the opportunity to do some sight-seeing en route. Maybe even make a few meanders. A few conversations with the beflowered natives convinced him the best vehicle for such a trip was a motorcycle. "So you can feel the air, man!" as one tie-dyed specimen put it.

So Jack had unloaded the Lizzie and purchased a shiny black 'chopper', at an establishment which seemed to have as many hangers-on as actual customers. A particularly scruffy pair of these, upon overhearing his plans, had barged in on his transaction. They'd introduced themselves as Giles and Angus, and assured Jack they could teach him everything he'd ever need to know about driving and maintaining his fine new set of wheels. All they wanted in exchange was to accompany him on his proposed tour.

He'd had misgivings, for the two reeked of 'pot'- the local slang for dried hemp leaves- which Jack'd never had much use for. He'd tried smoking 'ma-tsui' ages ago in Singapore, and concluded rum was superior in every way. But the pair seemed harmless, reminding him muchly of a certain twosome of Port Royal navymen, and he did need some instruction in the use of this vehicle. So they'd reached an accord.

For three days, he diligently practiced in an empty warehouse parking lot, until he was entirely confident he could steer this thing through any rough weather. The fourth day was spent purchasing provisions, including some proper attire; gloves, knee-high boots, black leather duds, and very large shades. Giles and Angus assured him his red headscarf looked sufficiently groovy just as it was. It would also restrain his more-than-shoulder-length mane from blowing into his face.

On the morning of the fifth day, the three of them rumbled down Interstate 5 and out of the city, in very fine spirits. By the seventh day, Jack, who did prefer to keep on the move, had been obligated to leave his traveling companions behind. They'd proved to have a too-frequent habit of getting too stoned to drive. If he'd had any desire to while away his time in a cannabis haze, Jack would've stayed in 'Frisco.

He'd spent the next couple months on his own, taking in the wonders of the American Southwest. He'd followed no set schedule, just rode where he wanted, stopping wherever and however long he wished to. When he got hungry, he'd patronize a roadside diner or dip into his store of dried foodstuffs (granola and beef jerky were far more palatable than hardtack.) When he got tired, he'd check into any handy motel, or pull his chopper off the road and unpack his small army-surplus 'pup' tent.

It was undeniably fun, though not quite as untrammeled as ocean sailing. This was an arid region where thirst could be a problem; he soon learned to fill up his two canteens at every opportunity. And he needed to stay on the mapped roads, not wanting to risk straying into any deserts he couldn't find his way out of. Plus, he had to periodically deal with 'the fuzz', who tended to assume any stranger on a motorcycle was up to no good. But he soon figured out how to handle them. Answering cops' questions with a pronounced British accent was an effective way to convince them he was just a tourist come to view their beautiful country (this had the additional advantage of being true.)

On the irrefutably-positive side, a lot of the recommended sights had been up to their reputations, notably the National Parks and the Vegas showgirls. He'd also encountered several delightfully uninhibited 'hippy chicks.' Overall, he was well satisfied with the experience- even the ocean was none the worse for being left behind every now and then.

But it seemed he was now approaching the Full mark, so should take the most direct route to Florida from here. Jack stepped over to his parked bike to unpack the road maps. The warm wind blew his bandanna ends into his face. He brushed them back, inexplicably reminded of the first such headscarf he'd ever owned... the one his Mum had given him. Bugger, had that actually been over two centuries ago...?

His recollection was mercifully interrupted by a familiar sound of 'rolling thunder'. Looking over his shoulder, Jack spotted a pair of motorcycles coming down the highway. Following learned habit, he examined them as they neared, pleased to note the absence of police uniforms or gang colors. With great gratification, he perceived both riders were females, and comely ones at that. Moments later, they were turning into this very pulloff.

The two young women- a blonde and a redhead- parked their matched blue choppers beside his solid black one, peeling off their denim jackets as they moved to join him under the kiosk. Their revealed tops- form fitting and sleeveless- made Jack marvel, yet again, at how little clothing a lass could get away with wearing nowadays. It was a change he definitely approved of.

"Peace, baby!" The blonde flashed him the ubiquitous two-fingered sign. Jack returned the gesture in a perfunctory manner. Oh, the pitiful (if rather touching) naiveté of these kids, imagining that any ritual of theirs could do anything to stem the inexorable human penchant for warfare.

The other girl just gave him a polite nod. "Any water faucets in this dump?"

"'Fraid not- just a soupçon of geological info. But yer welcome ta have some o' mine." Jack extended his canteen.

"Thanks, cat!" The blonde took it first, swallowing several mouthfuls. As she handed the canteen on to her companion, she elucidated, "I'm Belinda. She's Roxy. We're both from San José."

"Pleased ta make yer acquaintance! I'm Jack, from Manchester England." That was one UK locale all American youth seemed to regard favorably.

Belinda was no exception. "Right on! Say- that's one tuff chopper!"

"Yeah, nice!" Roxy, having taken her own drink, was also eyeing his wheels. Particularly the graceful scrawled silver moniker. "'Black Pearl'? Named for someone you know?"

"In a matter of speakin.'"

"No radio?"

"Never really liked those things. Always spewing about every unhappy event happenin' everywhere in the world."

"They can play music too, ya know." Roxy almost sounded accusing. "Don't tell me you don't dig music!"

"I dig it fine. 'Just don't need it on all the time."

Belinda broke in brightly. "Where're you heading, Jack?"

"Nowhere in particular. 'Happened to land up in San Fran, and thought I'd do some crusin'." He counted off his fingers. "So far I've been ta Yosemite, Sequoia Forest- tallest bloody trees I ever did see!- Big Sur, Los Vegas, Bryce Canyon, White Sands, Carlsbad Caverns, the south rim of Grand Canyon, an' Monument Valley. IE, our present mutual locale."

"What, no Disney Land?"

Jack ignored Roxy's implied barb. "Nope- not really interested in that. But a sight like this..." he extended an arm towards the towering buttes. "That's worth a long drive! Nothin' like it in Merry Olde."

"Rox, it's cool. He's just doing his own thing!" Belinda chided, pushing pale yellow curls behind her ears.

Roxy was tilting her head, just a tad suspicious. "How old are you, anyways?"

"Over thirty. I hope that's not a problem?" Jack flashed his most charming smile. Roxy softened a bit, while Belinda fairly melted.

"Naw, you're cool. An' you got such outta sight hair!" Belinda addressed her friend coaxingly. "We should ask him to ride with us."

Jack privately congratulated himself. "I may well be amenable to doing so. Just where might you wen... chicks, be goin'?"

Roxy shook back her own auburn locks. "We're cuttin' out for upstate New York, for the concert."

"What concert's that?"

"Oh, you gotta've heard!" Belinda insisted. She jumped enthusiastically, making her chest bounce in a most enticing manner. "The 15th to the 18th, in Woodstock! It'll be real happening. Hendrix, Baez, Joplin and Crocker!"

"And The Who. And CCR, Ravi Shankar and Arlo Guthrie," added Roxy, getting excited herself (though she didn't bounce.) "So long as you pay for your own gas, you're fine to come along with us."

Jack had heard some of those entertainers' works in 'Frisco, but had no strong preferences among them. What did intrigue him was the prospect of spending an extended interval with these two comely chits. He tapped fingers against his sparsely bearded chin.

"Fifteenth to eighteenth. Aye, I can spare the time." The ocean would certainly wait another couple weeks.

"We'll have to lay some rubber, though. No more sight-seeing between here an' NY!" the redhead cautioned.

"No sweat. Looks like the best scenery will be coming along with me." He eyed the two girls with unconcealed interest. Belinda giggled.

Roxy was slipping her dusty jacket back on. "If you're stoked, let's go."

"Jus' one other thing." Jack pointed to the redhead. "How 'bout if, fer the duration of this- I don't doubt 'twill be, enjoyable- excursion, I call you 'Scarlett'."

"'Scarlett'? Like the 'Gone With The Wind' chick?"

"The same. And you," he indicated the blonde, "I should like to call 'Giselle'. Like the chick in the ballet."

"I took ballet in grade school." Belinda/ Giselle smiled coquettishly. "This cat's got class!"

Roxy/ Scarlett cracked a tolerant grin. "I guess it's cool. How 'bout we call you 'Black Jack'? After your threads, and your real gone chopper."

To the girls' amusement, Jack responded with one of his fingertip bows. "Black Jack it is, milady."

Taking advantage of his position, Scarlett gave him a saucy little slap on the rump. "Deal!"

Jack pouted, rubbing his injured backside, until Giselle patted it to make it all better. "Then let's get rolling, Black Jack! We want to make Taos before dark," she urged.

The three climbed back onto their bikes. As they revved up their engines, Scarlett looked to their new fellow traveler. "Is there anything you Brits like to declare, on starting points like this?"

"There is a thing I like to say." Black Jack straightened up on his Black Pearl. "Bring me that horizon!" He gunned the throttle and sped off.

"Way cool!" Giselle followed suit, Scarlett close behind.

The three proceeded south down Highway 163, towards the magnificent land forms. And the even more alluring horizon beyond.

---

FINIS


	7. In A Sunburned Country

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

_August 6, 1944, a few miles outside Cowra, New South Wales, Australia_

x

Jack Sparrow was hotter than he liked to be. Even in August- winter in the southern hemisphere- the Outback sun wasn't exactly kindly.

Sweat was gathering under his bush hat, along the edges of his close-cut hair. His cotton work shirt was sticking to him, especially along his spine, where the rifle and canteen banged annoyingly. His feet felt most overheated of all, locked inside sturdy leather boots, kicking at the gray-green scrub.

_/ Of course it's hot- this is a bloody desert! What the hell ever possessed me to ensconce meself here? /_

The answer came at once._ / Yer tryin' ta keep yer distance from the still-bloodier war. Remember? /_

Naturally he remembered. If there was anything Sparrow's vast experience had taught him for sure, it was that wars were things to steer clear of. He'd made the mistake of not putting Europe to his rudder when the Great World War (as it was then called) started, and that had damn near gotten him killed. True, a certain number of Belgium refugees were better off for his having hung around, but it really was expecting too much of him to play the hero every time.

So when rumblings of another big conflict began in 1939, Jack had scarpered off to Indonesia. Surely that was sufficiently distant from the warring parties.

Then the Japanese military had launched their infamous attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, and suddenly the entire South Pacific was a military theater. Jack had hared off to Sydney, Australia. Surely that was far enough out of everybody's way.

Then the allied Naval forces started establishing themselves in the Sydney Harbor. Jack had put his boat- the _Caribe Swan_- in dry dock, and headed inland. He stopped when he reached Cowra, a nondescript farming community three hundred kilometers into the Outback. Surely such a place would remain unaffected- there was nothing worth invading out here.

Then army trucks rolled into Cowra and set up a Prisoner of War camp. Jack had seriously considered relocating to Antarctica.

But he'd decided to remain. He liked the spicy fare at the local restaurants (barbecued kangaroo was every bit as tasty as mutton), the hospitable pubs, and the easy-going folk who patronized both. Not to mention the encouraging abundance of bonnie farm girls- perhaps a bit heavy-limbed, but he appreciated their sun-litened hair and friendly dispositions.

His last misgivings were laid to rest one afternoon, when a stranger- a sturdy Mediterranean gentleman- walked into the 'Blue Heeler' pub, bellied up to the bar beside Jack, and ordered a "Vino rosso." A few questions, from Sparrow and some others, revealed he was Tenente Nicolo Pirelli, a POW. Not escaped, but on parole. Officers were considered trustworthy enough to allow out of the camp- even to make trips into town, if they wished.

The initial awkwardness was dispelled when the bartender ducked beneath the counter, emerged with two jugs of medium-quality red wine, and announced that, in honor of their guest, said wine was on the house.

Within minutes the pub's good fellowship was fully restored, with Nicky Pirelli in the thick of it. The hale fellow laughed at their jokes, told several of his own, and taught his new mates a raunchy Italian drinking song (at least according to him- most of the listeners had to take his word on the translation.) This gent was obviously a practitioner of that most admirable Italian philosophy: in any circumstance, one should take whatever pleasures one could. The evening's experience reinforced Jack's conviction that there'd be far fewer of these thrice-cursed wars, if different peoples made a point of patronizing drinking establishments together.

Strolling Italian officers were soon a regular fixture in Cowra. The enlisted men got their turns out, too. They were sent to work on the local farms, which most of them seemed okay with. When he needed to augment his poker winnings, Jack often found himself laboring in the fields alongside of them. The prisoners were only lightly guarded; the singularly inhospitable landscape beyond the farmed areas was considered sufficient determent to escape attempts. Most of these Italian POWs shared Sparrow's view, that there were far worse places to wait out the war.

But, though it was known there were also thousands of Japanese prisoners in the camp, none of them were ever seen outside. The rumored explanation was, their culture decreed that being captured alive was a disgraceful failing. Being deeply shamed, it was a matter of principle for them to not cooperate or fraternize with their captors in any way.

Jack considered this attitude patently absurd. Landing in one of the world's more livable POW camps, away from any fighting, was far from the worst fate a soldier could meet. Was, in fact, a stroke of luck not to be spurned. But if those blighters preferred to sulk, he supposed that was their own business. He and his mates might have never laid eyes on any Asian prisoners at all, if not for the mass breakout one August night.

Most Cowra residents first heard of it around sunrise, when several army trucks blared into town with the news. Over a thousand Japanese POWs had stormed the barriers- two guards had been killed, as well as over a hundred prisoners. About 350 of the latter had gotten out, fleeing into the adjacent lands. Some had apparently made it as far as the arid bush, where they would have very little chance of survival. The army was requesting the townspeople's help rounding up these escapees before they succumbed to dehydration.

After due consideration, Jack had volunteered his services. Dying of thirst was a fate he'd not wish on... well, maybe he wouldn't mind it for the evilest man alive. But not the fifth-evilest. And certainly not any poor misguided gits who probably had no idea how unforgiving the Outback could be.

Now here he was, several kilometers outside town, checking every brush clump large enough to conceal a human. The sun might not be at it's strongest, but that red soil had an uncomfortably way of bouncing the heat back up. Not for the first time, he was grateful the fountain's last 'bonus gift' had been an extra-dark skin.

So far, his poking about the low botanical clusters had only scared up a couple bandicoots, a wombat, and uncounted budgies. The monotonous 'beep-beep-beep' calls of the zebra finches were starting to irritate him, nearly as much as the tickling sweat and sun glare. Most provoking of all was his compulsive pondering over this whole daft jailbreak. Just what did those silly buggers imagine they were going to do once they got out? Melt into the crowd? Join up with an aborigine band? Stow away in the backs of pickups headed for the Allied port? He hadn't witnessed anything so ill-considered since that disastrous expedition to...

A sudden branch crunch- only produceable by a large creature- galvanized his attention. Listening intently, he detected some follow-up twig crackles, and identified which brush-clump it originated from.

He remembered the warning from the army Lieutenant who'd instructed the searchers; "These blokes will likely assume you mean to shoot them on sight, so approach them with great caution- you know what's said about sticks and stones." Sparrow brought his rifle to the ready position, watching carefully as he circled the dense bush.

A single additional step brought his quarry into view- a crouched canvas-clad form, dust-caked hair, narrow strained face. Unmistakably Asian, startlingly young.

_/ This blighter can't be a day over nineteen! /_ Jack pressed his lips, resolving not to let his guard down on that account. He knew well enough that a scared youngster could be damned near as dangerous as a full-grown man.

Jack kept his stare on that tight, desperate visage, as his free hand unslung and opened his canteen. To demonstrate it wasn't poisoned, he took a single large gulp before laying it on the ruddy soil, spout up, and backed away. When he judged he was distant enough to dodge a flung stone, Jack deliberately turned his weapon to the side, holding it to show his finger was well away from the trigger.

The boy spent all of five seconds wrestling with misgivings before he dove for the canteen. The poor lad didn't swallow the contents so much as he inhaled them. When he lowered the empty container, he appeared just a tad less anxious.

Figuring the ice was broken, Jack carefully repeated the phrase the Lieutenant had taught the searchers: "Ore to isshoni kaeru nara, mi no anzen wa hoshoo-suru."

The soldier seemed perplexed._ / Probably got the inflection wrong./_ Jack tried again. "Ore to isshoni..."

Suddenly impatient, the boy snapped, "I speak English!"

"Ah, that's good hearin'! Because that's about the full extent of my Japanese, other than 'Doku de ramu ga kaerunda?'" Jack grinned pleasantly. "But seriously, mate; you can't stay out here. Only the aborigines know how to keep alive in these parts."

The boy arose into a proud military posture. "I must escape! Is honor!"

"Is suicide-_ jisatsu_- if you escape into the Outback."

"Is better dead, than no honor!"

Jack had heard that exact tone before, from another young whelp declaring willingness to die for his lady love. The former pirate was careful not to smirk. Here, certainly, was 'a soldier full of strange oaths, sudden and quick in quarrel, / Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth.' Scoffing at his ideals would probably just make the boy dig in his heels. What Jack needed to do was convince him that returning to the camp was an honorable course.

"Surely theer's someone at home who'd prefer ya ta come back in one piece? Your Mum... mother, pehaps? Or a sister, girlfriend... ?"

"They rather I die, than no honor!"

Jack muttered darkly. "Do they really, or do they just think they ought to 'cause that's what their government keeps tellin' 'em? Been repeatin' that bloody lie since ancient times. 'With your shield, or on it.'"

But he refrained from expressing his loathing of that practice- convincing those without power that it was good and noble for them to be slaughtered for the benefit of them who had it. Instead he planted his rifle in the sand, leaning on it casually.

"Lad, I am yer elder by a considerable margin. Been through lots more hard times than yerself. So you'd do well ta listen. Survival is definitely worthy, 'cause then you can still be of use to... in your case, that'd be Country and Emperor?"

The lad managed to stand even straighter. "Yes! I will die for my Emperor!"

"You can serve him better if you stay alive. Your homeland's not goin' untouched, boy- it's gettin' bombed pretty bad. Whatever way this conflict ends, yer country will be needin' able-bodied men ta rebuild what's been knocked down. And to sire healthy children, to replace them what this war's wasted. Do you understand me, son?" Jack hoped he was coming across as paternal- not always easy when dealing with a bloke an inch taller than he was.

"Let's compare that scenario with this option you're currently pursuin'. You can walk off inta this desert right now, since I never had any intention of using this," he tapped the rifle, "fer ought but self-defense. Jus' be aware; doing so is suicide. And not an easy version. Dyin' of thirst is a wicked slow process. If you're lucky, you might step on a poison snake- and in these parts you'll be hard-pressed ta find a snake that isn't- an' pass quicker, albeit even more painfully. Either way, the only ones who'll get any good from it will be the dingos." Seeing the boy's unfamiliarity with the word, Jack used both hands to mimic a sharp-toothed mouth. "Arrf, arrf!"

The whelp flinched- it made sense that the tidy Japanese would be particularly repelled at the prospect of being eaten by wild dogs. "Aye; them beasties'll be happy ta scavenge ye right down to the bones. So you tell me; how'll that be of any help to your blood... to your Emperor?"

The boy didn't answer. Jack didn't need him to; it was plain he'd shaken the young man's determination. Dying for King, Country and Cauliflower might be glorious in theory, but when confronting the dust-choked, cracked-tongue reality...

Taking advantage of the lad's wavering, Jack hoisted his weapon and aimed it skyward. "No worries, whelp. This is just so's they can find us." He fired two loud shots. The young man remained where he was, and Jack smiled within. This battle was nearly won.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Ozuru, sir." The kid had retreated into military parlance, barricading himself against the supposed shame of giving in.

"Mr. Ozuru, why don't ya come back to the camp fer now, to give this matter some further thought? If you come ta the conclusion it really would serve honor better ta gasp out yer life on this bloody red dirt, you can try ta break jail again. But if you decide 'tis preferable to come home safe..." Jack's free hand fluttered. "You'll be placed just right fer that, eh?"

They spoke no further. But the youngster didn't attempt to flee, as a ruddy dust flume from a jeep approached. The vehicle was being driven by the in-charge officer himself, accompanied by a lightly armed aide.

The Lieutenant quickly assessed the situation. He stepped down from the vehicle, approached the rigid escapee with proper military bearing, and addressed him as a commanding officer would.

"Private, are you willing to come back with us?"

"Yes, sir." The youngster solemnly climbed into the rear of the jeep and sat with soldierly straightness.

The officer looked to Jack, smiling. The two of them had been acquainted for some while. "I take it your eloquence proved equal to the situation, Mr. Sparrow."

Jack smirked happily in return. "So it would appear, Lieutenant Groves."

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_Translations:_

_Ore to isshoni kaeru nara, mi no anzen wa hoshoo-suru. - If you come back with me, you will not be harmed._

_Doku de ramu ga kaerunda? - Where is the rum?_

x

_Historical Notes:_

_The chapter heading, 'In A Sunburned Country', is the title of Bill Bryson's informative, and frequently hilarious, account of his travels in the Land Down Under. It was from this book that I first learned about the diverse experiences of the Italian and Japanese POWs in Cowra._

_The 'Cowra Breakout', from Prison Camp 12 in New South Wales, was one of the largest prison escapes of World War II. The camp was run in full accordance with Geneva Convention guidelines, and most of the Italian POWs seemed to do well there- as mentioned, officers were even allowed to take unsupervised walks into town. But the Japanese POWs considered their imprisonment an intolerable disgrace, so felt compelled to escape on principle. Around 2 AM on August 5, 1944, over a thousand of them, armed with improvised weapons, stormed the guard towers and barricade fences. Two Australian guards and over 200 POWs were killed; approximately 350 of the latter made it past the barriers and dispersed into the countryside. Over the next ten days all were found, and most recaptured- some reportedly committed suicide to avoid this. In all, 231 Japanese POWs and four Australian soldiers died (happily, there were no civilian casualties.)_

_Camp 12 remained in operation until 1947, when the last Japanese and Italian prisoners were repatriated. The Japanese dead were laid to rest in a war cemetery, which Cowra still maintains. An Edo style Japanese garden was also established in the city, in commemoration of the event. Today, both sites are popular tourist attractions._

_The blue heeler is a breed of Australian cattle dog._

_'Tenente' is the Italian rank equivalent to Lieutenant._

_The 'soldier full of strange oaths' quote is from the Seven Ages of Man speech, in Shakespeare's play 'As You Like It'._

_Australia is the only continent which has more venomous than non-venomous snake species, many of which are particularly potent. Definitely no place to risk stepping on one._


	8. And what did you do in the Great War?

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

July 30, 1919, some unspecified location in the United Kingdom

-

"This is the transcript of my interview with Mr. Alan Horus- not his real name- who contends he is the semi-legendary 'Pêcheur Anglais', the anonymous boatman who, following the German invasion of 1914, ferried one hundred and sixty Belgium war refugees to safety across the Channel."

"Not contends! I _am_ the bloody Pêcheur Anglais- the 'English Fisherman'! There, see? I even speak French!"

"I can't just take your word for it, Mr. Horus. I've already spoken to two other gentlemen in Dover and Canterbury who've made the same claim."

"Oh, have you! Then why, if I may ask, are ye botherin' with me?"

"Because their accounts don't entirely match up with those I got from the rescued Belgiums."

"Ah. An' you want to establish how my own tale stacks up?"

"Exactly."

"Very well, missy..."

"You can call me Anna."

"I knew an Anna once- even looked a bit like you. All right, Miss Anna, what might I divulge to convince you?"

"First of all: what was the name of the fishing vessel you used to affect these rescues?"

"The _Governor's Daughter_."

"That is correct. Now why don't you describe what happened November 1, 1914- the night of your the first pickup? You were fishing off the coast, east of Ostende..."

"I wasn't actually fishing. That were just my cover. My purpose in that inlet was to meet a certain bloke fer a business transaction."

"What kind of business?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Not entirely legal?"

"Not entirely existent, actually, since the bloke didn't show. 'Never did establish why. But there were other folk on that shore. About a dozen people, sleeping under a stretched canvas. When I sailed near, ta check if my business contact were among 'em, their sentry spotted me an' woke the rest. They all got excited an' hurried down to the surf. I could see it were a mixed group- men, women, whelps. Would've taken 'em fer an extended family on an overnight beach outing, 'cept they all looked so anxious. They soon made it abundantly clear they wanted me to let 'em into my boat an' take 'em across the Channel. Started waving watches an' money about, ta whet my interest. One lass even opened her blouse an' waggled her assets at me."

"I'm not sure I can print that."

"No worries, Anna- I'm not totally without standards. I told that wench ta put her clothes back on; this weren't the time nor place fer that kind of transaction. But it did give me some idea how desperate this lot must be. Figuring I deserved some compensation fer my missed business opportunity, I haggled with 'em until we'd agreed on a fair price for transport. Then I brought my boat close, an' they all piled in, 'cept fer one lad. He said he couldn't leave without his Mum an' Da, an' it'd take a day for him to fetch 'em here. If I'd please return ta this beach the night after next, I'd be well paid- his Mum had a really valuable necklace. I told him I'd consider it.

"The boy scarpered, an' I started my engine an' set off. I told my unexpected passengers ta keep still and quiet, and advised 'em, if they must succumb to the 'mal de mer', it was in every way preferable fer them ta do so over the side. If you've ever crossed the Channel in a small boat, you know why nobody does that fer fun. We traveled all night, got plenty tossed, an' not everybody followed my directive about where to vomit. But we reached the English coast next morn. I let everyone off at an inconspicuous cove I knew of, directing them to the nearest village a couple kilometers upshore. The constable there would put 'em in touch with whatever British authority was in charge of war refugees. One woman, before she left, pleaded with me ta please pick up the boy- 'twas her nephew- an' his folks. I did end up doin' that, mostly 'cause I were curious about that alleged 'really valuable necklace.'"

"And was it up to description?"

"'Fraid not. Fer all that his Mum acted like she were presenting me with the bloody Crown Jewels, it 'twere an ordinary garnet cluster. But her husband, upon noting my disparagement, promptly offered me a pair of gold studs. I've a certain partiality fer that metal, so I accepted those."

"And you very decently allowed the woman keep her precious heirloom."

"It was more a matter of practicality, since it weren't as precious as she believed. Garnets don't fetch that much, even in peacetime. Of course there was an additional brace of people along fer the ride- apparently this couple had informed several of their closest friends about the 'pêcheur anglais' taking folks to England. And again, there was one in the group who didn't want ta disembark just yet; a matron whose man had been unavoidably delayed. But if I were ta come back two nights from then, he'd surely provide payment ta make it worth my while. Do you detect a pattern here?"

"So you made another round trip."

"It'd become somethin' of a habit. I did eight more such ferryings. Every bloody time there were more passengers than I'd been led to expect, about which I did make certain complaint. But my luck held; we had no mishaps worse 'en a discomforting rainstorm or two. At least until the tenth trip. That's the one everybody talks about."

"With reason. Go on."

"It started like the others. I took on a full load of human cargo an' steered out the mouth of the inlet. An' damn me thrice, if this shallow-draft German warship doesn't suddenly show up! The captain bellowed through a calling horn fer us ta pull up alongside an' come aboard. Well, I had a very sound motive- related to my AWOL business associate- ta be disinclined to comply with that request. So, I steered the 'Governor's Daughter' close, like I meant to obey. But I instructed, sotto voice, fer everyone to hold fast. An' the instant I had us past their forward weapons, I gunned the engine an' launched my ship straight to theer aft! Didn't leave more 'en a cat's whisker between our hulls. I know I took 'em off guard 'cause no one reached fer a side arm in time. Once clear of her stern, I headed westward at full throttle. I'd upgraded my engine ta deal with just such a contingency, you see- years of experience have taught me the crucially of speed.

"The warship gave chase, of course, an' I didn't manage ta evade their fire completely. Our port gunwale was nicked by a shell. Four escapees took injuries from the splinters, I lost a hat, an' the gap let in enough water ta keep everyone busy bailing fer the rest of the voyage. But that were the worst of it! Half-hour later, that infernal ship dropped behind our aft horizon, an' we made it across without further hindrance.

"It took no effort to figure out what'd gone wrong: somebody had told one person too many about these pickups, and it'd got back to the authorities. So, that were my final run. I turned down any an' all incentives ta try again- no fiscal gain is worth gettin' shot for. That's not the way I'd prefer to shuffle off this mortal coil, you know. Gives ya no chance to fight back."

"And what did you do for the remainder of the war?"

"Ah, that'd be telling, luv."

"Do you think you might ever do something like this again?"

"Can't honestly say I'd go out of my way to. The next big conflict's probably gonna find me a long ways away."

"Oh. You really believe there will be future wars?"

"Lass, from reading transcripts of the treaty those four Versailles gentlemen spewed out, I'd consider it more likely 'en not. If it were their deliberate intent ta ferment mass discontentment in Germany, they could hardly do better. Which is ta say worse!"

"I didn't really want to get into a political discussion."

"Of course not- that hain't what we're here for. So; how credible is my account?"

"It matches at every point."

"Then have I been successful in my endeavor to persuade you I am, indeed, the one an' only Pêcheur Anglais?

"I am ninety-eight percent convinced. Which does beg another question. Why this preference for anonymity? Many people would consider your actions worthy of recognition and acclaim."

"That's the whole problem. I'm not keen on havin' bloody politicians drapin' themselves over my shoulders, hopin' fer some of my perceived heroism to rub off on them."

"Then why make this effort to establish it was you?"

"Thought my passengers'd like to know I'm still alive an' kickin'. An' I wanted ta remind that chit in the blouse; 'tis a different time an' place now, eh?"

"Well, Alan, I can tell you you're far and away the most eloquent of my interviewed candidates. And you're also... that is, I think you're going to be the photo editor's favorite, too."

"Oh? You know, Anna, if you really consider me deservin' of 'recognition and acclaim', perhaps you might consider...?"

"I don't think I can print that, either..."

---

FINIS


	9. Learn To Be Your One Companion

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

**March 30, sometime in the early 1800s, the Yangon River Valley in present-day Burma**

It was midday. Master Sao Shuang, proprietor of the hillside Temple, was practicing his usual meditation on the terrace. Below, the verdant Yangon River Valley glowed like painted silk. On both banks, the cultivated farmlands were covered with new growth, almost burning the vision with their varied shades of green.

But, mindful of his obligations, the wizened Elder resisted the temptation to linger. He arose slowly, leaning on his twisted-vine staff, and made his way into the Meeting Chamber.

The interior was stark, though not inhospitable. Walls of smooth cinnamon-colored wood glowed in light reflected from the single square opening, in the apex of the peaked ceiling. The only furnishings were two large brown silk cushions, arranged near the center of the fieldstone floor. The aged man knelt carefully onto one of these, tucking his naked feet beneath him. He looked to the open doorway at the opposite side of the room, where he knew his visitor waited. The Master's withered but able hand moved to his sash and shook the small brass bell, signaling permission to enter.

The visitor bowed upon entry. As dictated by etiquette, he was dressed in the same manner as all the Temple inhabitants, in a plain but elegant indigo robe, head and feet bare. He took some seconds to cross the floor, allowing the Elder a chance to study him.

This looked to be a man in his thirties, of little more height and heft than the Master. The sway in his gait indicated years spent at sea. As he came closer, Sao Shuang took in the long dark hair, fastened behind the neck, and the neatly trimmed chestnut beard. The brown eyes were his most interesting feature; troubled as ocean waves, with remarkable stories in their depths. This one hadn't brought an ordinary problem.

The visitor sank onto the other cushion, meeting the Master's gaze squarely as he waited to be addressed. The Elder, who commanded nine languages, spoke courteously in the visitor's own tongue.

"Jonathan Bharadwaj, for what purpose have you come to this place?"

Jonathan's voice was steady and agreeable. "Master Sao Shuang; I've heard there's some in this temple who've lived a very long while, so might be equipped ta understand my rather unconventional difficulty." He paused. "Pardon my askin', Elder, but is it true you're second cousin to the Pirate Lord Sao Feng? I, don't see much family resemblance."

"I am, indeed, the cousin of Sao Feng. However, we were always of differing affinities. Feng was of the wind, I of the earth." The Master tilted his head, regarding the other keenly. "Your own affinity is much rarer- a convergence of water and wind. A Son of Storms. But that is not the most extraordinary thing about you, is it?"

Jonathan bit his lower lip. It was said, the Elders here were able to discern whether or not a speaker was telling the truth. The impending conversation seemed likely to put that claim to the test.

"You've not commented that I look a mite young to've ever laid eyes on Sao Feng."

The Elder's mouth quirked. "I assumed you would explain when you were ready. But if you prefer, I shall ask. How old are you?"

The visitor made a point of looking the Master straight in the eye. "I was born one hundred an' twelve years ago."

That eye didn't blink, or even crease. "Extraordinary, indeed. Though no more so than some others who have sought my counsel."

It was the seemingly-younger man who blinked. "So you've met others like me?"

"None in exactly your situation, Jonathan. But in equally improbable ones. I can not tell you more. I am pledged to keep their confidences, just as I am pledged to keep yours." The Elder placed bony fingertips together and rested his chin there. "Can you explain how you achieved this longevity?"

Jonathan, feeling like he'd just gotten past a tricky shoal, answered willingly. "There is a water spring in the southern United States, as it's presently called. You may have heard rumor of it; the 'Aqua de Vida', widely regarded as only a fanciful yarn. But it's actually actual. Not out of sight, jus' prohibitively hard ta recognize or ingest. I never would've figured it out, if I hadn't had both a chart an' a special compass fer guidance." He smirked a bit. "I can only assume the Seminoles had assistance of a similar kind when they first located the place. 'Probably considered it a fine joke, sending Mr. Ponce de León ta look fer it with naught but his eyesight."

He regarded the aged Chinese man almost apologetically. "I can't be any more specific. Got ta be very guarded about revealing the spring's location, or even confirming it's existence. 'Tis not about keepin' the benefits all to meself. You can imagine what'd happen if the reality of such a thing became common knowledge. There'd be wars fought fer possession of it."

The Master's voice was grave. "I am, indeed, able to imagine. Can you say how you make use of this miraculous water?"

"Fer convoluted reasons, none of it can be carried away. I have ta immerse meself there, to get a swallow. This has the effect o' turning a person's age back to theer prime years, if properly spaced. I've done some experimenting- seems once every twenty-four years is the opportune interval. The water also bestows an additional benefit with each dunking. My first treatment filled out my beard nicely. The latest one did wonders fer my teeth." The storyteller drew his lips back, revealing flawless white incisors. "Kinna miss the gold ones, but they had been lookin' rather worn."

"And have you seen fit to share this marvelous 'Aqua' with anyone else?"

"Got ta be cautious about that, too. I did intend to bring a good friend of mine ta get the benefits. Bloke of uncommonly loyalty, by the name of Joshamee Gibbs. But he met his maker before I got 'round to it."

Jonathan dropped his eyes for some seconds. The Master waited.

"Not that the spring would've made any difference. Those waters don't grant resistance to cannon fire... The circumstances of Josh's passing brought it home to me, that the age of piracy as I'd known it was pretty much over. I preferred to not just fade away, so a month later I died too. At least to all appearances. I'm obliged ta do so now an' then, before it's noticed how well my youthful looks are holdin' up.

"Subsequently, I called on some remaining friends o' mine; Elizabeth an' Will Turner. I figuring they'd prefer ta know I was still amongst the livin'. That pair were the most devoted lad an' lass I've ever personally met. Endured some rough weather through their early years, they did, but that seemed to've made the knots hold all the firmer, once they'd navigated to calmer waters.

"They were as shocked an' delighted ta see me as I could've hoped. Did get a bit accusin', when they inquired why I'd fabricated such an undignified manner of shufflin' off the mortal coil. But I got 'em ta understand, it were ta insure the Madame would keep mum about the ploy. She'd definitely want those additional exhibition coins ta keep comin' in.

"Eventually I got 'round to explaining why it was necessary fer me to go through all that bother. I revealed everything about the spring, an' once I'd got 'em convinced it weren't just another of me tall tales, I offered to take 'em to it. 'Twould be my very definite pleasure to have the two of 'em about through the coming centuries. We discussed it well inta the night, but they finally declined. It seems Will was fully confident the next life was naught ta be afeared of, havin' had a glimpse of it hisself. And Lizzie wasn't going to consider stayin' behind without him. I regretted their refusal, though I weren't entirely heartbroke. So I told 'em, jus' let me know if they ever had a change of thoughts. They didn't.

"I kept in regular touch as the two got old together. When they felt their time had come, I provided some small assistance to theer passing together at sea, at theer own request. That was a loss I mourned, though no more than was due. Liz an' Will certainly looked happy, the last glimpse I had of 'em.

"They'd had three offspring, who were adults by then. The oldest was William James Wetherby Turner, whom I'd always called 'Willy' in me mind. A very fine lad, who grew to equally admirable manhood. I'd acted as sort of a father to 'im through his first nine years, when his own Da couldn't be there, so he was the closest thing I'd ever had to a son." Jonathan glanced sideways, uneasy. "I can't sire any of me own, you see. Had a bad bout of scarlet fever when I were fourteen. Ran a high temperature. I'd guess you know what that can do."

"You do not need to explain further."

"The waters might undo it sometime, though there's no predicting when. 'Tis a 'deficiency' that didn't bother me at all, fer the first several decades afterwards, but now...

"Anyways. Four years after Willy's parents passed on, his own wife, Rose, met an untimely demise. Some loading mishap on the docks... a most sorrowful event. Seeing how that'd left the two of us unattached, I thought it were appropriate fer me ta extend the same invitation to Willy. His youngest children would soon be of age, and there wasn't anyone whose company I'd rather keep fer decades or centuries, I told him. Willy was intrigued, but said he needed ta think about it. I had some business ta tend to fer a week, so I promised I'd come back after, ta hear his answer."

Jonathan paused, swallowing hard, before he continued. "At the appointed hour, I walked up ta his place feelin' on top o' the world- already makin' plans ta disembark fer Florida soon as the tide allowed. I don't like to recall how it took the wind from my sails, when Willy met me on the front stoop an' told me he'd decided against. Said it were a real kindly offer, an' he'd always be grateful fer it. But he didn't care ta outlive everyone an' everything he'd ever known, leaving him with no sense of place or belonging.

"I was a lot more disappointed than I expected ta be. Angry, in fact. So much so, I had ta make excuse ta head right back to my ship. I sailed to the next port down, stormed into the tavern district and had a proper three-day binge. Don't remember much about it, beyond tryin' ta drown the rage an' not succeeding. I was later informed I'd done a lot of ranting about bloody stupid Turners who lost more intelligence with each generation, an' some ingrate whelp scorning a chance such as many would sell their souls for, an' what'd I ever do ta make him spurn me like a soiled cur?" Jonathan shook his head. "I must've sounded fit fer bedlam."

Sao Shuang judged it time to make comment. "I believe I understand. You had envisioned a future of yourself and Willy, a devoted 'father and son' team, having endless grand adventures together. You had thought he was sufficiently attached to you to find this prospect irresistible. So it wounded you greatly to discover he did not, in fact, hold you in sufficiently high regard... that he was perfectly willing to let you continue alone."

"'Suppose so." The former pirate's expression was utterly mournful. "I did make a point to not let him know him how much that refusal stuck in me craw, so Willy and I stayed friends fer the remainder of his days. He were as scrupulous as Will an' Lizzie about keepin' me secret. I was on good terms with his offspring, too, right up to when I had to manufacture another demise. Even afterwards, I occasionally looked in on 'em from a distance. Until jus' three months ago. That's when I got word Willy was dead."

Jonathan's hands clenched. "He were seventy six, an' I hear he went peaceful, with his own whelps an' grandwhelps around him. About the least-objectionable end anybody could hope for. Shouldn't of torn me up like it did, nor be lingering like this... Why won't it let go?"

"Because you have lost more than a good friend. More, even, than a substitute son. Willy was the last surviving part of your original life. Instead of your dying and leaving the world behind, your world has died and left you behind."

The visitor grimaced in remembered anguish. "I've known more o' dying than almost any- I don't care ta know any more- but I never anticipated the alternative would hurt this much! Do you understand, Master Sao, why I've come to such as you?"

"Indeed. This is not an everyday problem." The wrinkled man leaned closer. "But you must specify, Jack Sparrow. Do you have doubts about continuing your visits to the Aqua de Vida? Or are you resolved to do so, and want advice on how to cope with the disadvantages?"

Jack wasted only second on startlement, upon hearing his former name used- he had dropped hints, and this Elder was sharp as a new blade. "Ta tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure."

"Then I shall address both. Just keep in mind, I can not advise you from experience. Certain of us at this Temple have methods to extend our years, but hardly to your own degree.

"However, I can point out the fairly obvious; the bereavement you are presently experiencing is only your first. For as long as you make use of the spring, this singular grief shall continue to befall you, as you repeatedly outlive the times and people you know. Whether the benefits are worth this price is not for me to decide." He regarded Jack thoughtfully. "Tell me, how do you plan to fill your abundance of years?"

"Sail everywhere I haven't been- see everything I haven't." The former pirate brightened, his imagination engaged. "Even the inland sights. I rather fancy gettin' a look at that big wall, north of here. I've heard tell of birds in New Guinea with such marvelous plumage they might've flown straight out of heaven- I'd like to judge that fer meself."

"This world, though wide, is finite. What shall you do once you've explored it all?"

"Start over at the beginning. A lot of it will of changed by then, eh?" Sounding more enthusiastic, Sparrow counted off his fingers. "I want to finally learn proper horsemanship. I'd like ta get the view from at least one really tall mountain. I want ta master that Japanese-style fencing, with those single-edged katana swords. 'Want to make a good long stop in Barcelona, so the Gitanos can do a proper job teaching me flamenco dancin'. An'..." Jack's eye twinkled. "No disrespect, Elder, but unlike you, I haven't taken any vows of celibacy. There'll always be new generations of wenches, an' I can't imagine ever getting my fill o' them. Oh- and I'd like to visit Vienna regularly ta try the pastries. Those Austrian chefs are always comin' up with new ones."

Sao nodded hopefully. / So many years behind him, yet still so much the child. Though unbecoming in some ways, this could serve him well./

"Then the question you must consider, is whether these agreeable prospects are sufficient compensation for the loss you must also experience. You must take into account the very real possibility that you'll never find a companion willing to endure it alongside you. I sense there is uncommon resilience in you, Jack Sparrow. But even the greenest twig breaks, if bent often enough."

Sparrow pondered for a minute. "Aye, but only after a long while of bending. And there is one component of this world that'll never change, an' I'll never tire of."

The Master finished softly. "The sea. The one passion of Feng's I could always understand."

Jack's smile, though subdued, was his first sincere one since Willy's death. "I guess the only way ta find out how long I'll want to keep sailing her, is ta give it a try, eh?"

"We are in accord," Master Sao pronounced. "Your course, between wind and water, may never be an easy one. But you shall experience more of life- in every sense- than perhaps any other. May you find a balanced passage, Son of Storms."

Sparrow sagged, feeling greatly relieved. As though, after weeks of anxious uncertainty, he finally had a reliable heading.

/ This gent didn't actually tell me anythin' I didn't know, or couldn't of figured out. But credit's due, fer deducing what I most needed. 'Twas of genuine help to have everything laid out so plain fer me. /

Jack gave the Elder the most willing bow he'd ever bestowed on anyone, respectfully touching forehead to the stony floor. "Thank you, Master Sao. Ye've done me a fine turn." Coming up, he added with a smirk, "I hope yer late cousin wouldn't be too disapprovin'. He never liked me much."

The Elder just smiled in turn, raising a hand in benediction. "Fair winds to you, Captain."

The walk to the doorway strongly reminded Jack of his downhill trudge from Willy's dwelling- realizing he was facing a long journey he'd have to make alone. But this time, the prospect was not a forlorn one. If anything, he was looking forward to it.

Jack Sparrow stepped out through the cedar archway, onto the windy terrace with it's striking view of peaceful valley farms. Green and fresh as spring leaves.

A world reborn.

Time to do some exploring.

x

_Child of the wilderness,_  
_Born into emptiness,_  
_Learn to be lonely..._  
_Learn to find your way in darkness._

_Who will be there for you?_  
_Comfort and care for you?_  
_Learn to be lonely..._  
_Learn to be your one companion._

_Never dreamed out in the world_  
_There are arms to hold you,_  
_You've always known,_  
_Your heart was on its own!_

_So laugh in your loneliness,_  
_Child of the wilderness,_  
_Learn to be lonely..._  
_Learn how to love, life that is lived alone._

_Learn to be lonely-_  
_Life can be lived,_  
_Life can be loved,_  
_Alone._

_... Andrew Lloyd Webber_

_xxx  
_

**FINIS**


	10. Final Resting Place

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

February 12, 1956, an unidentified locale in the Caribbean Sea

-

Captain Sparrow was home. He could tell that even with his eyes closed- the scent of the Caribbean Sea was unlike any other. Even the intrusive din of the sixteen-foot runabout's outboard didn't diminish his sensual enjoyment. Nor the blissful anticipation... the near-prospect of finally being reunited with Her. He smiled as the speeding hull cast salt spray into his face.

Finally he opened his eyes, to take in the wide expanse of brilliant ocean. There was no color he loved more than the blue of these waters on a clear midday.

Deciding it was time to check their course, Jack moved aft and fished into his duffel bag, for a scarce-used octagonal device. He flipped it open and checked the sluggish needle.

Moving fore again, he seating himself beside the dark-haired young man at the controls. "About six degrees more ta starboard, Will."

"Brent." The driver gave his passenger a semi-exasperated look as he turned the wheel. "Would it help if I wore a name tag?"

"Sorry, lad. The resemblance is truly uncanny." Jack regarded his hireling closely. "Are you quite sure there's no Turners amongst your ancestors?"

"Very sure. My grandparents' last names were McNally, Pryce, Nighy and Harris."

"What about yer great-grandparents?"

"I'd have to look that up. But you couldn't of met any of them." Brent McNally spoke with some hesitation, for his customer had the kind of appearance that defied age classification. There were times when the weight of Jack's expression made him look to be in his fifties, at least. And there were other moments when he didn't seem a day past twenty-five. That was the case just now; his playful brown eyes were sparkling bright as the sea itself.

"I get the impression you're really looking forward to this."

"I am! 'Been dreamin' about this- bein' able to stay underwater like it was air- fer years an' years. Ever since I read 'bout those blokes doing it in '2000 Leagues Under The Sea.'"

"I thought that was about a submarine."

"'Tis about both. Jules Verne was a bloody prophet! So when they started that training program in LA, I were one of the first ta sign up. If you ever decide to get dive certification, it's worth makin' the trip out there. Al Tillman's the best!"

"I can't say I've given it much thought."

"You should. Yer livin' in one o' the best parts of the world fer scuba divin! Do you have any idea what amazin' sights er down there? The reefs? The coral fish?"

"I've seen them through glass-bottom boats."

"Ah, that'll jus' give ya a vague impression, Wi... Brent. Ye really should take advantage of finally havin' the technology available ta experience it properly."

The youngster seemed intrigued, grinning in a truly Turneresque manner. "Maybe I'll give it a try. After I pay back my college loan." Sparrow made a mental note to give this lad a substantial tip.

Glancing back at his customer's stacked gear, the boatman noticed the absence of an expected item. "Aren't you taking a spear gun?"

"I weren't planning to bag any fish on this dive."

"What about protection from sharks?"

Jack made a face. "Whelp, that contraption is bloody useless fer such purpose. There's maybe three square inches on a shark where a harpoon'll kill it fast enough ta do you any good. Hit it anyplace else an' you'll just make it more inclined to attack."

"What if it's already attacking?"

"If it's a big one who really means business, you've got no chance worth spit anyway, armed or no. Luckily, that's a exceptional event. I've encountered a number of those beasties, an' the majority were just passing by, or takin' a casual look. On those minority occasions when one does try ta take an exploratory bite, pushing the snout away, or situating some decoy item between the critter and yerself, is a more effective defense 'en most anything a spear gun can do."

"Shouldn't you at least have a diving partner?"

"Now that is an entirely sound an' rational precaution, such as I'd not advise anyone else ta disregard. But due to highly exceptional circumstances, I really do need to make this particular dive on my onesies. Jus' don't tell Mr. Tillman. Savvy?"

Brent regarded Jack searchingly. "If you're looking for a treasure ship..."

"I am plannin' ta do exactly that, at a later date. But today's excursion has a different objective." His face assumed that almost-ancient look. Noting Brent's quizzical stare, Jack dispelled it with a waggle of his eyebrows. "If yer inclined ta listen, I can tell ye about this wreck. Be warned; it's a middlin' long yarn."

"It'll be a while before we get there," the whelp pointed out.

"Verra well!" Jack glanced to the cooler, but resisted, recalling Al's warning about ingesting alcohol before a deep dive. He settled back into the passenger seat and began.

"There is a man who captains a tall ship, which he truly loves... better 'en 'most any human being, in fact. The number of people this man's ever truly cared for can be counted on one hand. But that's not entirely his fault. He'd been born inta bad circumstances. Not impoverishment- financially his family is, then and now, one of the best-off in England. But his Mum's a cold-hearted cow who prefers to keep her distance. His Da's worse; a harsh rotter who holds his older brothers in much higher regard, an' takes every opportunity ta remind him of it.

"So this man grows up feelin' none too close to his own flesh an' blood. 'Soon as he's old enough, Da sends him off to learn seafaring aboard a family-owned galleon, the _Viceroy_. That ain't so bad- he soon comes ta prefer shipboard life to any other.

"When he's sufficiently experienced, the man is given captaincy of the _Viceroy_, an' a letter of marque to work as a privateer fer the British Crown. He turns out to be very good at this. Doesn't ease his situation with his parents, though. They're pressuring him to marry into another aristocrat family, to keep theer noble line goin'. But bein' Captain has afforded him a new sense of independence; he has his own ideas.

"So he returns from this one long trip 'round the Cape, sendin' advanced word that he's bringing a highborn bride with him, and could they please make arrangements fer the wedding ta be performed soon as he gets into port? His family makes said arrangements an' meets him near the docks, all dolled up an' fancy. It's not 'til their son steps ashore with his intended that they get a gander at her.

"She's a rare beautiful lass, smart as any Oxford don, with a lovely-sounding voice. But none o' that matters. The only thing his parents notice, to their horror, is that she's brown as polished mahogany. The man's gone an' got engaged to an Indian gypsy!"

Jack paused to study his listener's reaction. Brent just asked, "What's her hair like?"

"Solid lustrous black. Fallin' past her waist."

The boy grinned. "Nice. So what happened?"

"It's too late ta cancel the wedding ceremony, so the man's family has ta sit through it, feelin' totally mortified. Wish I could've seen that! The man enjoys his act of defiance, but he pays a high price later. His bastard father demands that he stow his 'coloured' spouse away in some distant port, then come back an' marry a proper British wife. In those days, that's how a gentlemen was expected ta arrange such things. The man refuses; says this one wife is all he wants, and he ain't gonna pretend he's ashamed of her, nor their children when they come.

"The man says this knowin' full well he's steerin' straight into a squall. Few things'll stick in Da's craw worse than the prospect of publicly-know half-breed descendants... contamination of the ancient an' honorable bloodline. But even he's taken aback at how furious the old man gets. Right then an' there, Da disowns his younger son, completely and fer all time.

"The man an' his bride have ta flee port, afore his father's minions can confiscate the _Viceroy_, it being the legal property of a noble family the man no longer belongs to. They sail to Madagascar- you know where that is?"

"Big island off the India coast?"

"Off the east coast of Africa, but yer in the right ocean. The man pulls into his favorite port there, an' spends most of his remaining fiscal resources havin' the _Viceroy_ repainted, an' her rigging altered, so she won't be recognized an' confiscated. He renames her the _Star of Madagascar_, reflecting his partiality fer that locale. Changes his own name too, while he's at it. The disownment works both ways.

"The only option the man can see fer income now, is turnin' ta piracy. Which ain't much different from privateerin' anyway; just pays better. But there is one complication. His wife is now great with child, an' they both agree a pirate ship's no place ta raise a whelp. The wife's only got one living relative; a devoted older half-brother, Matsendra. He's a 'freelance' sailor, taking jobs out of the London waterfront. They decide she can reside there, with a brother ta look in on her, until the man has accumulated sufficient swag ta set his family up proper. So they set sail back to England. On the second day out they run into a typhoon, an' their son is born at the height of it.

"They make it to London, where the new mother moves into humble quarters with her babe, thinkin' it's only fer a year or two. But then things go seriously off course. The man has a misadventure which delays his return fer a full seven years, during which interval his poor wife catches tuberculosis. 'Twas called 'consumption' at the time, and there was no effective treatment. The man finally does come back, and keeps his promise ta move his dependents into much better housing, but the disease has already taken a firm hold. The woman dies when her son is twelve years old. The boy blames his father fer this, so the two are estranged fer a long spell afterwards.

"These disappointments an' failings probably contribute to the man's attachment to the _Star of Madagascar_- the only entity he's ever done entirely right by. He remains a seaman all of his life, achieves a position of esteem within his profession, manages four-fifths of a reconciliation with his son. And he makes every effort ta take proper care of his precious _Star_. But, as you may know, even the best-maintained wooden ship will eventually get too worm-bored and decayed to stay watertight. 'Happens all the sooner in tropical waters. 'Something there is that doesn't love a hull.'"

"I thought that was 'Something there is that doesn't love a wall.'"

"That hardly applies to life at sea, lad. Anyway, the man is well up in years when his beloved vessel reaches that condition. There comes a day when he takes her out ta sea without givin' her any calkin', and by the time the land drops from sight, water is leakin' in faster 'en it can be pumped out. The man doesn't seem much concerned, but the crew sure is. Until along comes this other very fine ship, captained by his son. They'd made a previous arrangement ta meet out here.

"The man tells his crew, anybody who wants can switch ships an' be taken safe back to port, but he intends ta stay with the _Star of Madagascar_ until she goes down. His men are truly sorrowful, but none of 'em feel quite as attached to the _Star_ as he does. So they all get aboard the son's ship an' watch as the man sails away, tall an' straight at the helm, his vessel riding ever lower in the water. The two vanish over the horizon an' are never seen again."

There was another pause in the narrative. The speeding boat bounced over a row of largish waves.

"So, that's the shipwreck you're looking for now?" Brent asked.

"No. No cause ta disturb that one. The _Star of Madagascar_ has her captain with her fer all time.

"The rest of this tale concerns the son. He grieves fer his father, though not overmuch, for he figures Da is where he wants ta be. An' he can understand it, havin' a real strong attachment to his own admirable ship. They've weathered some storms fer each other, they have! He's lost her three times, but always managed to get her back, an' each time the reunion was sweeter.

"Fer long years after, he an' his fair lady roam every sea. When she, too, starts ta show signs of irreparable wear, he seriously considers takin' the same course his father did- sailin' her straight until she sinks under him. There's one way his situation is significantly different from his Da's, though; he can expect to see quite a few more years. So one day he has a long talk with her about it, an'..."

Brent interrupted. "Wait- he talks to his boat?"

Jack answered sternly. "Lad, every real captain converses with his vessel. Ye'll find that out fer yerself, if ye ever command one of yer own. By which I mean a real ship- not this water-taxi. No offense intended."

"Not much taken," the boy sniffed.

"Anyway, the upshot of this conversation is; she has no desire fer him ta cut his life short on her account. She'd prefer him to keep sailing fer as long as he's able. 'Doesn't mind that he'll be captaining other ships, 'cause she knows even the finest of 'em will never take her place in his heart.

"So. Accompanied by a friend in another boat, the son takes his ship to sea one last time, navigating to a particular spot which holds special meaning to him. And there he scuttles her. He dives off her rail, swims to his friend's boat, and watches as she goes down. Doesn't look away fer a second, though he'd like to. It's like seein' a piece of himself being hacked off.

"He continues with his livin', just as he'd promised his lass. Also makes a point of recordin' exactly where she sank. An' that location has come down to me."

Brent rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "You really think there'll be anything left? How long ago did this happen?"

"Oh, a fair span of years, boy. But I have reason ta believe she's preserved better 'en average, at this particular locale." No point attempting to explain why. Though the whelp may have heard of Calypso, it was unlikely he'd believe she was a real being. Let alone one a man could make deals with.

Their speedboat continued over the sea. Jack stole another discreet look at his compass, saw the needle starting to tip downwards. "You can reduce speed now, Brent. Turn her just a tad to port. Easy on the throttle... and... there!"

Brent killed the engine; blessed quiet returned. The runabout bobbed gently on turquoise swells as Jack moved aft, to stow the compass and start gearing up. He pulled his tee shirt over his head, in preparation for donning his wet suit.

"Say, what happened to your back?"

"Eh?"

"It looks like you've been sleeping on an air vent."

"Oh. That." It was easy to forget how unfamiliar lash marks were in this era. 'Twas just as well that his were less prominent than they used to be. "Some unpleasantness that happened a long time ago. Doesn't matter now." Jack shrugged as he stepped into the charcoal-colored wet suit.

He well recalled his dismay, when he first noticed that his rejuvenations in the Fountain were gradually eradicating his scars. But he'd decided it was for the best. Even in his post-pirate life, he regularly acquired new scars, and didn't really fancy being completely covered with the things.

As he tugged on the neoprene sleeve, he glanced at his right wrist. The P brand was still visible, though now devoid of any social stigma. Nobody was on the lookout for that indicator anymore, nor likely to recognize it upon notice. When somebody did ask, Jack explained it was the result of a childhood accident, or a ritual scarification, depending on his mood.

Once zipped into the suit, Jack proceeded to put on the weight belt, buoyancy vest and fins. Brent helped him strap on the air tank and breathing hoses. Last of all, Jack slipped his face mask on, tugging the strap into place over his full mane.

As he swung a leg over the gunwale he gave Brent a confident grin. "I'll be back in about a half hour, lad. Or if the very worse happens an' I don't return, remember there's naught fer you ta feel guilty about. I chose ta take the risk an' won't regret any outcome." So saying, he pushed the regulator into his mouth, swung his other leg around and plunged into the sea.

As the newly-familiar sense of weightlessness enveloped him, he turned head-downward and kicked straight for the bottom, passing through a neon-bright school of yellowtails. The surrounding water got colder, and a deeper blue, as he approached the blotchy gray seabed. It was too deep for coral reefs here, but he spotted a wide, shadowed rift. Jack headed straight into it, feeling her proximity before he could see her.

And there she was. The stream of bubbles from Jack's regulator paused as, after nearly a century's separation, he beheld her once again.

Resting upright, partially sheltered beneath the rift overhang. Not untouched- her sails were gone, stern carvings tumbled, mizzenmast and lanyards askew.

But still entirely recognizable. Still the most beautiful ship on (or under) the seas. And still his love.

/ 'Time cannot wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety.' /

With careful leg strokes, Jack swam closer, approaching her bow. He laid a reverent hand on the dark figurehead's preserved arm, still outstretched to release a winged creature.

A winged creature which had flown... but had now returned to her.

/ Hello, my Black Pearl. /

He would swear, on all his remaining years, that the carved face smiled in welcome.

---

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

The first scuba certification course in the United States was offered by the Los Angeles County Department of Parks and Recreation, in 1953. This program was created by Albert Tillman and Bev Morgan- the former is widely regarded as the 'father of diving education.'

While spear guns are still used for sport fishing, they are no longer touted as an effective defense against sharks, for the reasons cited above. But this was not the general attitude in 1956. On this matter, Jack's thinking is well ahead of his time.

'Something there is that doesn't love a wall' is the opening line of 'Mending Wall' by Robert Frost, first published in 1919.

'Time cannot wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety' is from Shakespeare's 'Anthony and Cleopatra'.


	11. Don't Cry For Me Argentina

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx  
_

**June 27, 1828, off the coast of southern Brazil**

Former-captain Sparrow was crouched at the waist of the fragata _León Del Oro_, yanking a wide needle through tough sail fabric. Seething. Not so much at being forced to undertake this menial task, as at the unutterable wrongness of being pressganged at his age. It seemed the Spanish Navy, having taken serious losses during their (losing) war against the Argentine rebeldes some years back, was still in the process of replenishing it's numbers. To that end, it wasn't above borrowing a brutally effective 'recruitment' tactic formerly employed by their British counterparts.

"'Enganchar', these bastardos may call it. But for anyone on the receiving end, it's 'abducción'," Jack muttered angrily. He was sorely tempted to do a bad job with the mending, but decided it wasn't worth a flogging.

It had been two weeks now since his transport schooner had been overtaken and boarded, and himself seized and manhandled off... probably selected due to his less-than-intimidating size. So here his presumably-controllable self was, in the service of King Ferdinand VII. Said service being an endless succession of whichever monotonous, odorous, or degrading shipboard chores none of the Spanish crew wanted to do. Having had a cat o' nine tails shaken in his face to warn him of the penalty for noncompliance, Jack had remained meekly obedient, though it was grating on him worse every day. He rather worried his resentment was going to blow a hatch cover, before an opportune moment arrived for him to escape.

The ex-pirate kept his gaze down as a pair of Spanish tars slouched past him. When they were gone, he chanced shooting a smoldering glare up at the quarterdeck, where Capitán Sandino was conversing with the helmsman.

Conversing quite earnestly. That was interesting.

Sparrow's glare faded. He gathered up the mass of canvas, dragged it across the deck and knelt at the quarterdeck base. Any watcher would assume he was just seeking out the shade there. He bent to resume sewing, his ear trained on the discussion above. Within a minute, he heard something which made him suppress a hopeful smile.

Since being hauled aboard this fragata he'd been careful to conceal his command of Spanish. His captors assumed, since they'd wrested him off an Indian-crewed ship, that that was his nationality and language. Which made him no less useful- they only required him to understand a sharp push towards whatever demeaning job needed doing, accompanied by a barked "¡Consiga trabajar!"

The pretended ignorance had paid off. His well-honed orientation skills, learned from Polynesians over a century ago, had kept him attuned to the ship's locale. She was presently off the southeast coast of Brazil, heading south. Now, his eavesdropping had informed him of her destination and approximate arrival time.

Capitán Sandino, having delivered his instructions, stomped down from the quarterdeck and disappeared below decks, sparing no glance for the captive deckhand. Jack's mind was already busy plotting a dramatic exit. He continued to tug at the mending threads, as he carefully reviewed everything he knew, or had heard, about the port of Buenos Aires.

**July 7, 1828, miles west of Buenos Aires**

His threadbare sleeve served as an adequate sweat-mop as Jack hiked eastward across the Pampas- the vast grasslands of northern Argentina. Not the worst place to make landing, he supposed; gently rolling green plains with occasional trees and distant blue mountains. But it was much further inland than he'd intended to go. Though that might be for the best; he'd be well advised not to show his face near Buenos Aires' waterfront anytime soon. Those Marinas had pursued him in greater numbers, and far more persistence, than one escaped crewman seemed to merit. Who'd of thought they'd take such offense over a broken mast!

Actually three broken masts.

All right; maybe it wasn't so surprising.

To elude them Jack had concealed himself inside a loaded wagon, packed with sufficient provisions to suggest it was going someplace distant. It had been his plan to slip out as soon as it'd carried him well clear of the dock area. What he hadn't counted on was falling into a deep slumber (in his own defense, he had been sleep-deprived for some time.) By the time he awoke, the wagon had left the city behind and was deep into cattle-ranching country.

Ah, but his escape from forced servitude was what mattered. He should count it a less-than-terrible hardship that he now had to walk a fair distance to be somewhere other than Nowhere. And he'd not be in want of food anytime soon. He'd stuffed his pockets with edibles from the wagon, and this region was hardly arid. A watering hole, round and shiny as a coin, was coming into view on the left. As he neared it Sparrow noted the abundance of large hoof prints leading to the brink. Evidently this pond was used for watering livestock.

More encouraging was the scarcity of leaves growing out of the surface. At his previous watering stop, he'd gotten a bad scare from the sudden appearance of the biggest damned snake he'd ever laid eyes on. Already his planned narrative was exaggerating it's size and aggressiveness a bit- a narrow escape from a ferocious predator made a better story than the simple rearing of a scaly head above water weeds (irrefutably huge though that head had been.)

Jack knelt at the least-weedy bank he could find, and slurped his fill. He was just starting to get up, when he heard what sounded like a distant thunder roll. Looking in the direction of the rumble, he saw it was an approaching herd. Twenty or so horses- sturdy, thick-legged, with short tails and unkempt manes. Four had riders, obviously guiding the herd to this pond. These were dark mustached men, wearing wide-brimmed hats, ponchos, loose pale trousers and knee-high boots.

Sparrow hastened to step aside from the hoof-marked trail, but made no attempt to hide or flee. They'd surely spotted him already, and he had no chance of eluding them on this open grassland. Better to meet them straight on and hope their attitude was non-hostile. Or if it was, at least hope they spoke a language he knew.

The unridden horses proceeded straight to the pond, wading in to drink. The riders, as expected, peeled off and closed around the pedestrian. Jack held hands aloft to display his total lack of weaponry, trying to look as harmless as possible. Probably no great stretch, given his current state of bedraggledness. The weeks of slaving on the _León Del Oro_ had left his breeches and shirt in a pathetic condition- the riders' dusty attire looked almost gentlemanly by comparison.

One horseman, with an impressively full mustache and a lordly air, reined in just in front of Jack. He leaned forward, studying the smaller man with neutral curiosity. "¿Qué usted está haciendo aquí, extranjero?" he inquired, in a tone to match.

Spanish, albeit with a regional accent. Jack reasoned he'd better not risk revealing he was a fugitive until he knew where their allegiances lay.

Lowering his arms, he replied, "Me pierden, buen Señor. ¿Puedo saber quiénes usted es?"

The big man straightened proudly, tugging his hat brim. "Somos gauchos."

Sparrow gave an inward cheer. He had heard of the gauchos (from the Quechua 'huachu', meaning vagabond); the semi-nomadic horsemen of the Pampas. Not exactly outlaws- most made their living working for cattle barons- but said to live by their own rules, valuing their independence above all else. Quite likely to sympathize with a man seeking refuge from the authorities.

"Me he escapado de la Marina de guerra Española. Me secuestraron para ser un esclavo a bordo de su nave." He pointed to the brand on his right wrist, taking the chance that these inlanders would not recognize it's specific meaning, but would regard it as a great cruelty. Branding was for animals, not people.

The gamble seemed to work; there was a fast exchange of muted exclamations, and the gauchos started regarding him sympathetically. Jack sensed an opportune moment. "Necesito un lugar permanecer. Estoy dispuesto a trabajar. Mi nombre es Jack."

"Yo soy Ricardo Moreira," the apparent leader replied. "¿Puede usted montar?"

Not as well as he ought to, but this was no time to admit it. "¡Sí, Señor Moreira!"

"Usted puede venir con nosotros para ahora. Descubriremos si hay trabajo para usted."

One of the other gauchos produced an extra bridle from somewhere, dismounted, and approached the riderless horses. He selected a muted-gold mare with shaded black legs, bridled her, and led the animal beside an adequately-sized mounting rock. Jack cringed a bit at the prospect of riding bareback, but reminded himself he'd already had a great stroke of luck, encountering people who were able and willing to help him. And he did know the appropriate response to a gift horse.

The waiting gaucho looked straight at him, eye twinkling, and Jack had a bad moment. The man might have been a younger, swarthier, beardless Barbossa. Of course that was just coincidence.

The big bloke apparently detected Jack's apprehension. "Éste tiene buenas maneras. Su nombre es Perla."

"Oh!" Jack decided this would be an apt time to believe in good omens. He made a point of swaggering confidently, as he stepped onto the stone and swung a leg over the mare's dusty back. At least she wasn't as uncomfortably rounded as the last horse he'd mounted. 'Barbossa' handed him the reins with care that further reduced Jack's misgivings. "Muy gracias, Señor."

"Es nada. Soy Miguel Salas," the gaucho replied, before returning to his own dark-brown stallion.

The horsemen let their mounts drink, before rounding up their sated charges and herding them across the grasslands. To somewhere.

Sparrow was careful to keep to the rear, so as not to interfere. He had to hastily reacquaint himself with a method of gripping with his knees, to reduce the bumping to a tolerable level. Fortunately the mare was patient with his inexpertize, and he was soon comfortably matched to her gait.

Señor Moreira glanced over at him periodically, eventually favoring him with a smile that clearly said, 'Needs work, but has potential.' Jack's confidence soared. Though he could tell he'd be plenty sore tomorrow, the fugitive decided he was willing to remain in this region for a while. He'd long intended to learn better horsemanship, and now he had the means, the opportunity, and a very solid motive.

**September 15, 1831, another area of the Pampas**

Jack was racing between wind-blown grass and twilight sky, towards distant campfires. Riding fast- Perla was eager for her feed. His loose-fitting bombachas trousers flapped above molded calfskin boots, the tirador sash waving from his waist, his hair streaming like Perla's black mane. Despite a touch of melancholy over his recent decision, he was happy overall.

Once he'd gotten past the Perpetually Sore initiation period, his muscles had hardened and he'd come to enjoy the speed and mobility a horse afforded. Moving fast and free over open country compensated for the less agreeable aspects of ranch work. Notably the near-fatal stupidity of cattle, and unreasonably demanding ranch owners. It was a fine thing that, when dealing with the latter, he generally had the option of turning his mount and galloping off.

Horses were far more agreeable company. None more so, than his bonnie gold-and-black mount. He was definitely going to miss Perla.

Jack reached down to pat the sweaty neck. "We've had a hard day's work, lass, but it's almost over now! You've definitely earned an extra ration of oats."

Reaching the outskirts of the camp, he slowed to pick a path among the clusters of stacked equipment and groups of dining men. He guided Perla to the picket line, dismounted and tethered her to the stretched rope. A young gaucho boy approached, ready to tend to her needs. Jack gave the lad a smile & request for extra oats, and the mare an affectionate stroke on the nose. Then he hurried towards the inviting scent of _asado_- meat grilling over open fires.

Having grown up in London, where regular consumption of beef was a hallmark of the rich, Sparrow couldn't get over how readily available it was on the Pampas. Leather was this region's mainstay commodity; as far as the ranch owners were concerned, the beef carcasses they grew on were practically byproducts. Their workers were allowed to slaughter all the cattle they could eat so long as they delivered the hides to the ranchers.

Jack eagerly joined the line of coworkers near the cooking fires. He collected his share- a fine dripping hunk of beef- and moved off to find a place to consume it. He spotted Miguel Salas, seated on a felled log with his own portion. When the larger man waved him over, Sparrow did not hesitate to join him.

The dimming light might have accentuated Miguel's resemblance to Hector to an alarming degree, if not for his genuinely friendly expression. The man was a naturally gregarious sort who had done more than anyone to help the fledging gaucho adjust to his new situation.

"Come, my friend- there is plenty of room for you!" (Jack had been hearing and speaking Spanish for so long, he no longer noticed it.)

The former pirate settled himself, reaching to the back of his belt to draw his _facon_- a long sharp knife with a worked silver handle. It was a mandatory commodity for any gaucho; Jack had bought this one with his first earned pay. Both men got to work slicing their meat chunks and eating it directly off their blades.

A number of minutes passed before Miguel spoke. "We completed nearly all the brandings today, so we can go into town tomorrow afternoon. Juanita Almirón will be at the malambo dance." Miguel's eyebrow hopped suggestively. "You know, she likes you very much. I've heard her say you are very fine company."

"I enjoy her company as well." Sparrow smirked lecherously around a beef slice, his untrimmed mustache soaked with juice.

"You should play the boleadoras for her again. You're good at that."

Jack looked sheepish. "Better at playing 'em, than throwing."

The boleadoras- three leather-bound rocks tied together with yard-long braided straps- was used as a percussion instrument at these dances; bounced at high speed in time with the bombo drum. Jack could do this quite well; it was the object's primary function that he had trouble with. A boleadoras was a hunting weapon, thrown from horseback to entangle the legs of animals such as deer, or rheas- those large Pampas running birds resembling mid-sized ostriches. Though he'd learned to swing the thing without clobbering himself, Jack had never got the knack of tossing it accurately. Not much past twenty feet, anyway.

"You will improve after another year of practice. Maybe two."

Jack lowered his _facon_, regarding his friend with special somberness. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be here that long."

Miguel rolled his eyes in a 'oh not, not this again' manner. "Always the sea with you! What is so wonderful about the sea? What can you do there, that a man on a horse can not do here? We have space to ride as far and fast as anyone could want!" He waved his arm about. The wide plains around them were now dark green, bounded only by a distant range of pointy mountains.

Jack examined the gently rolling pampas, untrammeled wind tugging at his hair. Beautiful as this landscape had appeared when he'd first arrived, it looked better to him now. "I understand why the gauchos feel that way, Miguel. I have become very fond of this place. But I loved the sea first."

Miguel leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. "So you keep saying. Have you decided to return to this First Love?"

Jack gnawed off the last bit of beef and tossed the bone aside. "I've been here for over three years. My flamboyant escape from the _León Del Oro_ must now be a standard barroom yarn, not an offense screaming for vengeance. Furthermore, I have learned to speak Spanish with a regional accent. I should be able to inquire about a berth with no suspicion I'm anything other than an actual gaucho."

"You are an actual gaucho!"

Jack grinned, almost shyly. "Not the way you are, who have always lived this life."

Miguel grimaced, as if he'd bitten into gristle. "I suppose not that way."

"As you were born for the grass plains, I was born for the ocean. Lately, my dreams about her have become very intense... she is calling me back. Following our next payday, I shall make my way back to Buenos Aires."

"Are you going to tell Juanita?" Miguel's tone was just slightly accusing.

"When we go into town tomorrow. She'll soon get over me. I have never deceived her about my intent to someday leave."

Miguel looked wistful, minimizing his resemblance to any traitorous first mate. "Will you ever come back here?"

"I would like to, but can't promise. You know how it is. Our lives are blown like foam, or chaff, on the wind. None of us can be sure where it will take us next. My coming here in the first place is proof of that." Jack shut his eyes for a few seconds. It was one of those moments when it seemed to Miguel, Jack's face had no age at all. "I can promise I will not forget my years here. Or you. For reasons you couldn't possibly suspect, you have made a number of bad memories much easier to live with."

Miguel didn't ask him to clarify; his friend often said peculiar things he claimed he couldn't explain. The big gaucho just assured, "I will not forget you either, Jack."

The older man turned his head, gazing fondly towards the picket line, where his pretty blonde horse was munching on her oats. "There is one thing I would like you to do, after I leave. Please make sure Perla goes to someone who will treat her well."

The other nodded. "I will. Perla is a most useful horse. She made a decent rider out of you, eh?"

Jack grinned wryly. Then he emitted a loud yawn. Half the sky was now star-spangled.

"A day spent rounding up stupider-than-average strays is particularly exhausting, so I am going to go to sleep now. Good night to you, Miguel."

"And to you, my love-sick friend." To himself, the gaucho muttered, "It must be true what they say; that love will make a man do crazy things."

Sparrow moved to collect his effects from Perla's back, then found an unoccupied space in the grass, not too distant from a banked campfire. He spread out his saddle-blanket and lay down, resting his head on his saddle and pulling his poncho over himself.

When he stared straight up, the glittering night sky looked the same as it did over the ocean. Only the sensation of rocking beneath him was missing. Soon he would feel that again, and be glad of it.

But he'd told Miguel the truth. He would always remember the Pampas, and the admirable residents who, though landlubbers, valued their freedom as much as any seafarer. Jack let his eyes shut, falling asleep within minutes.

For the first time in a very long while, it was not the sea he dreamed of.

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_Translations from the Spanish:_

_Fragata - frigate_

_Enganchar- to hook something (slang for pressgang)_

_Abducción - abduction_

_¡Consiga trabajar! - Get to work!_

_¿Qué usted está haciendo aquí, extranjero? - What you are doing here, stranger?_

_Me pierden, buen Señor. ¿Puedo saber quiénes usted es? - I'm lost, good sir. May I know who you are?_

_Somos gauchos. - We are gauchos._

_Me he escapado de la Marina de guerra Española. Me secuestraron para ser un esclavo a bordo de su nave. - I have escaped from the Spanish Navy. I was kidnapped to be a slave aboard their ship._

_Necesito un lugar permanecer. Estoy dispuesto a trabajar. Mi nombre es Jack. - I need a place to stay. I am willing to work. My name is Jack._

_Yo soy Ricardo Moreira. ¿Puede usted montar? - I am Ricardo Moreira. Can you ride?_

_Usted puede venir con nosotros para ahora. Descubriremos si hay trabajo para usted. - You can come with us for now. We will find out if there is work for you._

_Éste tiene buenas maneras. Su nombre es Perla. - This one has good manners. Her name is Pearl._

_Es nada. Soy Miguel Salas. - It's nothing. I'm Miguel Salas._

x

_Historical Notes:_

_The Argentine War of Independence was fought from 1810 to 1818, and resulted in Argentina becoming a country independent from the Spanish crown._

_In 1814, the British Navy formally banned impressment, aka press-ganging- kidnapping or coercing men into shipboard service. The Navy had long used this method to keep their ships adequately manned._  
_Informal versions, such as 'shanghaiing', continued until the early 1900s, when labor laws finally made the practice entirely illegal._


	12. Three Little Moments

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

_August 26, 1883, the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra, Indonesia_

It was the loudest noise Jack had ever heard. Or that anyone had, as he'd later learn. A continuous tearing roar, booming from the whole forward sky. With just a trace of trumpety sound it could pass for announcement of Armageddon. As it actually was, for one piece of the world. That dark lightning-struck ash cloud, billowing over the west-southwest ocean horizon, denoted a volcanic eruption. An enormous one.

Sparrow tore two strips from a cleaning rag and stuffed then into his ears, before forcing his stare to his boat's navigational compass. He checked the bearing of that glowering cloud's origin, ardently hoping it wasn't Sebesi Island.

It wasn't- too far south. Krakatoa, then. Establishing this was something of a relief, since that rugged island had far fewer inhabitants.

But not a total relief. The volume of noise and debris indicated this was nothing short of a cataclysmic eruption, which would certainly have deleterious effects on it's neighbors. Darkened skies, ash falls, huge waves. Nobody in this region was going to be conducting business transactions anytime soon.

Jack could only hope the residents of the adjacent islands had had the good sense to clear out when the major rumblings began. Neither he nor anyone else would be able approach any shore to help- not without real risk of being caught in a tsunami.

_/ Seems my timing's neither the best nor the worst. Would've been opportune if I'd completed my business on Sebesi last month. On the other hand, if I'd happened to dock there just a couple days ago... /_

But he hadn't, and there was no point in his lingering here any longer. The wind could shift- start blowing those dangerous emissions in his direction. Jack gunned the engine and turned the _Lady Lisbeth_ east-northeast, reversing course back through the strait. It was time to explore the profit-making opportunities in the Philippines.

But even as he left Krakatoa's noisy death throes in his wake, he continued to give it uneasy backward glances. That growing ash cloud looked menacing even from afar; a pulsating airborne dome...

x

_September 3, 1911, Cape Evans Base on Ross Island, Antarctica_

The thick woolen clothing restricted Jack's movements to a disconcerting degree, as cold was numbed his nostrils with each inhalation. And this was the warmest part of the year, at this end of the earth. Only the promise of fame and fortune, attendant to being among the first to achieve a well-publicized goal, could've motivated him to endure such conditions. But he'd developed serious doubts it was going to happen.

Sparrow trudged over frozen mud to the stockade, intent on verifying a disturbing rumor. Several white ponies, with shaggy coats and stocky limbs, were lined up at the enclosure's lee side. Coming to the first, he gripped the bridle and pushed back the animal's pallid lip, leaning close to examine the teeth. What he saw made him grimace. Moving down the line, he checked each equine mouth in turn, making the same finding.

_/ What horse-ignorant rotter picked these nags? /_

Jack glowered mightily as he released the last beast. For some while now he'd been bothered by the way their expedition leader, Robert Scott, was handling things. Preparations had become alarmingly rushed since Scott received word that he was actually engaged in a race- that the equally famous Norwegian explorer, Roald Admundsen, was currently preparing his own effort to become the first man to reach the world's southernmost point.

Haste tended to produce bad results, even in environments that allowed more margin for error than cold-bitch Antarctica. Losing one of their ice-sledges during unloading was just one of the clearer signs that things were not being done with sufficient care. And now this discovery. The Siberian ponies slated to transport their supplies were... well, hardly as old as he was, but disturbingly close.

Sparrow pushed the edge of his hood aside, looking south to their proposed expedition route. A hundred miles on foot, over some of the most unforgiving terrain on this planet. And he was already acquainted with the futility of trying to talk their fearless leader into modifying any of his plans. There was a fine line between admirable determination and blind stubbornness- Scott was far too prone to crossing it.

Willingness to take a gamble was one thing. Damned-fool disregard of risk was something else.

Sparrow's jaw set, his decision made. When the _Terra Nova_ disembarked for New Zealand, he'd be aboard.

As if sensing the human's premonition, the nearest pony nudged anxiously at his shoulder. Jack patted the doomed animal's nose. "Sorry I am, lad. 'Tis not like anyone asked whether you wanted ta be a part of this."

A frigid gust blew the animal's pale mane about. Jack tugged his hood up and trudged back towards the low, sheltering buildings. It was well past time to come in from the cold...

x

_July 24, 1951, Summit of Mount Matterhorn on the Swiss/ Italian border_

Under his tinted face mask, young Ueli beamed at the line of red-clad climbers spaced along the rocky apex. "Our little walk up here was worth it, yes?" he crowed.

Jack, along with his fellow hikers, was inclined to agree. Everybody was exalting over what they were seeing; several were unslinging packs and taking out cameras. Sparrow did not favor dragging around something as bulky as a camera, but now he rather wished he had one.

The vista from the Matterhorn's peak was truly spectacular. Though clouds obscured some of it, they had beautifully clear views of the pointed rock faces north of this ridge. Monte Rosa, Lisskamm and Breithorn- some of the most impressive peaks in the Pennine Alps, swathed in winding sheets of snow. They could even see scraps of the distant green lowlands, seemingly miles below their feet.

"Take your photos quickly, my friends. We must beat the afternoon storms," their guide reminded.

Steve, the chiseled hiker from California, interrupted Jack's rapt gazing with a nudge. "How 'bout I take your picture, Josh? I can mail you a copy."

"Thanks- that's mighty thoughtful of you!"

'Josh Moineau' struck a few gleeful poses against the spectacular backdrop, as Steve snapped him. The tall blonde man regarded him appraisingly as he lowered his camera. "You know, Josh, if you ever want to take up modeling I can get you an interview at my agency."

"I'll consider that, mate." It might be worth a try. Modeling wasn't the world's most interesting work, but he'd heard it paid ridiculously well.

All too soon, Ueli shouldered his own backpack, signaling it was time to start the descent. "Have a last look from the highest point of the Alps, gentlemen!"

Sparrow did, grinning as he drank in the hard-earned sight. He'd certainly remember those sunlit snow peaks, dazzling in their whiteness...

x

"Jack? Hey, Jack!" Somebody shook his shoulder.

Sparrow blinked. Shiny black invaded his vision... exquisite lips, painted with jet-colored gloss. Above them, concerned ebony eyes regarded him from a henna-decorated face.

Jack came back into himself. It was 1978, and he was in a fine Miami restaurant. A bowl of excellent vanilla ice cream was in front of him, a much darker, but equally delectable, dining companion was beside him, running black-polished fingernails over his arm.

"Are you okay? For a moment you looked like you'd blanked out completely!"

"I'm fine, Tina." Jack sheepishly looked down at the dome of cold whiteness. "'Guess I had something of a 'close encounters' moment."

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_Historical Notes:_

_The Indonesian island of Krakatoa, west of Java (despite the movie title), was largely destroyed by a series of volcanic explosions on August 26-27, 1883. This eruption produced the loudest sound in recorded history, heard as far as Perth Australia, 1,930 miles away. Though Krakatoa itself had few inhabitants, the event caused over 36,000 deaths on nearby islands, mostly due to the subsequent tsunamis._

_Robert Falcon Scott, a British polar explorer, reached the magnetic South Pole on January 17, 1912. This made his expedition the second to do so; his rival Roald Admundsen had arrived there on December 14, 1911. Worse still; while everyone in Admundsen's group returned safely, Scott's entire team died on the trudge back to the coast._  
_Jack's decision to bow out was probably a wise one._

_The 1977 science fiction film, 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind', includes a scene where Richard Dreyfuss' contemplation of a serving of mashed potatoes triggers an alien-implanted vision._


	13. Night Moves

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx_

_April 30, 1778, near the mouth of Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island_

x

Darkness had fallen over river and docks, but not one member of the _Providence's_ crew thought of sleep. A week of enforced nighttime activity had turned them into functional nocturnal creatures. All tars were at their stations, the several officers clustered on the aft deck, looking to the slight but authoritative figure at the helm. Their Captain, in a red-fronted navy coat and black tricorne, was holding aloft a fistful of fluttering cloth strips, seemingly mesmerized. A minute later he lowered them.

Somebody called up, "How blows the wind tonight, Cap'in Whipple?"

'Whipple' looked down at his expectant audience. In the dim light his metallic teeth flashed like weaponry. "The wind's in our favor! Mr. Messenger, make ready to cast off. Mr. Mercer, prepare the gun crews!"

The crew scattered to their tasks. First Mate Stillwell Messenger, a colorless but reliable puritan, remained on deck to dispense orders to every member of the topside crew. Gunnery Officer Amos Mercer, a lanky red-haired bloke, smirked devilishly as he disappeared down the hatch. That blighter had a ruthless streak to him, recalling another Mercer of his acquaintance. Not that Jack was complaining. That quality might well be needed to get them through this night's business.

Familiar sounds of preparation enlivened the night-darkened vessel. Her Captain gripped the wheel, veins thrumming with long-banked anticipation. It was an interesting recent discovery that the prospect of shine wasn't the only thing capable of stirring his blood so. Oh, he was anticipating payment for this service; just a lot less than he'd usually require to take such risks. But he also felt a certain sense of obligation. There was a job to do here, and he was easily the best qualified to do it.

Jack snorted, stroking his shaved chin. Perhaps he was getting older, Fountain or no.

Sparrow had followed accounts of the rebellion in the New England Colonies from it's beginning, since a change of government there was likely to affect his own operations. His natural inclination was to root for the colonists, agreeing with their assertion that, having found their leadership unsatisfactory, they were entitled to select a new one. This had long been a governing principle of pirate crews; the notion of running a whole country that way was intriguing. Jack hoped the rebels would win just so they'd have a chance to try this idea out.

Then he heard rumors the Continental Navy (as it was rather oddly designated) was so short of experienced officers they were willing to hire candidates of foreign origin. And weren't even bothering to make extensive investigations into the backgrounds of said candidates. Jack had toyed with the notion of applying, though he was not truly tempted. He'd no yen to risk his precious _Black Pearl_ in a conflict in which he had no stake.

But then his ship came due for a careening- a thorough one- and he found himself in need of something to do for the next several months. Preferably an activity which would fetch at least a bit of profit.

So, with forged papers and a very secure wrist bandage, he'd made his way to York, Pennsylvania, where the new nation's Continental Congress was headquartered. He presented himself as Captain Abraham Whipple (a sufficiently unpiratical a name, he figured), formerly of the British Royal Navy. He related how he'd been summarily and unkindly decommissioned after making all-too-effective contributions to the eradication of the Caribbean's pirate infestation. Being fully sympathetic to the colonists' cause, he was now offering his services for hire.

Impressed by his accounts of outmaneuvering wily buccaneers, the Congressional members had offered Captain Whipple his own command: the _USS_ _Providence_, a two-year-old frigate with a crew of 170. However, there was a catch. The _Providence_ was one of several vessels confined to her namesake Providence River (in Rhode 'Island', which was no such thing) by the blockading British fleet. Another frigate- the _Warren_, captained by John B. Hopkins- had successfully slipped past that blockade in early March. It was hoped the audacious Captain Whipple could manage a similar feat. Once he'd done so he was to sail the _Providence_ to France, to fetch back a shipment of vital supplies for the Continental army.

Jack, who hated the thought of a fine young ship being confined against her will, happily accepted this assignment. He even agreed to wear the bloody heavy naval uniform (though he drew at line at the wig.)

After being delivered to the _Providence_ and becoming acquainted the ship and crew, Sparrow spent several days assessing the situation... scouting out Rhode Island Sound in a seemingly harmless fishing skiff. Having made careful studies of the impressive blockade ships, and familiarized himself with the Sound's many channels and islands, the Captain gathered his officers and laid out his plans. The _Providence_ would make a nighttime run for it, lamps dimmed and guns primed. In preparation for this, he ordered his crew to practice carrying out their battle duties after dark. The willing young men soon made the adjustment.

A favorable wind was also essential, to propel the _Providence_ up to her fullest speed. Her captain had checked the wind direction himself, for three nights running. On this fourth eve the ribbons were finally showing what he wanted to see.

The frigate cast off from her riverside moorings, as quietly as such a large vessel could manage. 'Whipple' ordered the sweeps run out, sheathed in canvas to stroke almost noiselessly. Jack knew that, while the Sound's numerous islands would afford them some concealment, it was highly improbable the _Providence_ would reach the sea before the Enemy sited her. When that happened they'd have to bolt, being outgunned as they were. The further south they got before then, the better their chances of making it out of the Sound. Once on open water the _Providence_ would have advantage over the better-armed, more-encumbered British ships.

It was an hour short of midnight when Jack's unlit vessel eased out of the river's mouth, into Narragansett Bay on the Sound's northern end. He carefully scanned the starlit waters, noting the dark masts of several blockade vessels. None close enough to've spotted them for sure. Jack steered the stealthy frigate towards the central channel. This between-islands route was somewhat shallower that the wide eastern one, so would probably be less heavily patrolled. At least he hoped so. "Steady as she goes, Mr. Messenger," he instructed his stolid First.

Three hours later they were more than halfway through the Sound, and Jack was daring to believe they might make it through unchallenged. A shout from the rigging shattered that hope. He glared in the direction of the lookout's point, spotting a large vessel to starboard aft, on an interception course. Raising his spyglass, he checked the scarce-lit figurehead, immediately recognizing it from his skiff excursions. This was the formidable British frigate _Lark_.

The next moment a booming shot across their bow dispelled any doubt about whether she knew who they were. "Full speed, lads! Gunners, return fire at will!" Jack yelled.

Lamps were partially uncovered and a hubbub rose as the tense crew jumped into battle mode. Within seconds, vivid fire spouted from the _Providence's_ side. Trust Mercer to be poised to spring.

The American frigate gained speed as her newly-unfurled canvas caught the night wind. The _Lark_ continued to fire, her accuracy no doubt impeded by the lack of any illumination brighter than starlight. But of course the _Providence_ was operating under the same restriction.

Jack aimed his vessel between hulking islands, into a narrow channel where neither ship could use her broadside guns to best advantage. But they couldn't remain here for long. He could perceive several more sails headed in their direction- other British ships joining the hunt. In this lean passage, if even one foe found a route to get in front of them the chase would end.

A between-islands gap was coming up on their larboard side; Jack steered towards it. He knew that inlet led to the wider eastern channel where his ship would be harder to hem in. But the _Lark_, deducing Jack's intent, was maneuvering to block their course. Jack decided it was time to take a gamble.

"Mr. Messenger! Instruct Mr. Mercer to ready all larboard guns to fire at her masts- I'm turning us broadside!"

"Aye!" The unflappable Mr. Messenger hurried to holler the instruction down the hatch. Jack made a starboard feint, then, when he judged there was just enough room to avoid collision, turned hard to larboard. The _Lark_ attempted to do the same, but was hampered by her greater weight.

"FIRE!" bellowed Jack.

The _Providence's_ guns rang out in thundering chorus. Her massed shots struck home- with a monstrous cracking din, two of the _Lark's_ masts swayed and toppled. Alarmed shouts rose from her deck. The _Providence_ cut straight across her foe's bow and down the escape route before the _Lark_ resumed firing. The rebel ship took no significant damage.

Jack turned south into the east channel, yelling for the rowers to lose the canvas sheaths and pull with all strength. Stealth was no longer essential- speed was!

Another disconcertingly large vessel appeared aft, pursuing them down this wider waterway, yellow flashes booming from her sides. Directing the _Providence's_ return fire was entirely Mercer's responsibility now. The Captain had all he could handle steering his vessel along the most direct route he could manage without straying into the shallows.

The oaken deck shook under his feet as their pursuer hit on target. Jack shot an angry look over his shoulder, just in time to see their answering fire pound a dent in the enemy's bow. He mouthed a quick prayer of thanks for Mercer's accuracy with a chaser.

The exchange continued. One shot took out a section of the _Providence's_ starboard railing, another grazed her mizzenmast, pelting the deck crew with flying splinters. There were yelps of pain, but every man kept to post, turning canvas to catch every tug of the steady wind. And the _Providence's_ guns continued to give as good as she got. Maybe even better- the enemy seemed to be dropping aft.

Jack murmured encouragingly. "'Tis only a bit further now, lass! Jus' past this shoal the channel opens an' ye'll finally have room ta run free... Jus' a wee bit further, luv... aye, that's it... An'... _There!_"

With a spin of the wheel, Jack brought them around the edge of the final island, to the mouth of the Sound. Open water at last! The hemming dark land masses fell away at either side and the ship sprang into waves, overjoyed to finally be at sea.

"They're fallin' outta range, Cap'in!" came an enthusiastic shout from the rigging. Jack glanced back to confirm the outsized British vessel was now well astern. Ocean wind fling itself against their canvas, further widening the gap.

"Mr. Messenger! Tell 'em to cease fire!" Jack steered the _Providence_ eastwards towards paling sky, pounding the wheel in congratulations. "Well done, lass! A fine gallant lady you are- near a match for me _Pearl_!"

The _Providence_ bucked playfully over a largish swell. She knew she'd been paid a rare compliment.

Their pursuers, and the ragged coast, shrank to insignificance behind them. The forward sky turned golden as the weary but exuberant gun crews staggered topside from the smoky hold. Mercer's powder-blackened face looked almost demonic, Messenger's visage was contrastingly pale and phlegmatic, but both men were equally happy.

Their Captain, grinning broadly at the horizon, waved his tricorne in a wide-armed salute. "We made it, lads! Next stop France!"

There was general cheering. "Liberty!" "Union!" "For General Washington!"

Jack felt, more surely than he ever had before, that Mr. Washington's cause was going to succeed. How could it not, with such determined and valiant blokes fighting for it?

The delighted ship bounded over the untrammeled waves, towards the brilliant sunrise.

xxx

_Throughout the American Revolutionary War (1775 - 1781), much of the British fleet was engaged in imposing a blockade of major American ports. On the night of April 30, 1778, the American frigate USS Providence successfully escaped the British blockade of Rhode Island Sound. According to reports, she exchanged heavy fire with the British frigate Lark, inflicting some damage, then fought a running battle with another vessel until she cleared the Sound. The Providence outran the British ships and sailed directly for France, arriving at Paimboeuf on May 30, to procure guns and other supplies for the Continental Navy. The frigate Boston joined her at Brest, France, and the two ships started back to America on August 22. They took 3 prizes on this return voyage. On October 15, 1778, the Providence arrived safely at Portsmouth, New Hampshire._


	14. Provenance

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

November 22, 1961, an office building in New York City

-

"'Tis been in me family from a long ways back. 'Only kept it fer the sentimental value. But now that yer President's gone an' made 'em fashionable, I thought it might be worth somethin'."

"It might indeed, Mr. Swift."

The jeweler's glass winked brightly over the appraiser's right eye, as he inspected the object under discussion; a large yellowed sperm whale's tooth, artfully decorated with a soot-darkened etching of a tentacled monster.

On the other side of the desk, Jack fidgeted a bit, tugged his shirt collar. He doubted he'd ever get entirely used to business suits... but those seemed to be what most pirates were wearing nowadays. Not that it had any bearing on the current present situation.

The lean appraiser commented, "This engraving is very detailed, which is certainly an asset. Do you have any written documentation at all on it's origin?"

"Not a one. Theer's jus' the tale that's come down with it."

"Tell me anyway. We can always include it as a 'hearsay' account."

"It was supposed to've been scrawled in the early 1700's, by a sailor who went by the name o' Lionfish. Hence the signature." Swift pointed to the tiny etching of a long-spined striped fish, near the tooth's lower edge. "First Mate on a pirate ship, 'tis said. Nigh fearless in battle. It's alleged that, jus' a few days after he completed this, his ship attacked a merchantman that fought back. Lionfish took a deep saber cut, which went septic an' killed him," Jack finished sadly.

The appraiser quirked an eyebrow. "You consider that a matter of regret?"

"I have it on good authority, Lionfish weren't the most vicious sort of pirate. A thief an' brigand, but known to've shown kindness to a dying woman. Got into the profession out of necessity more 'en by choice. A lot of blokes did," Swift added, a bit defensively.

"I am aware that not all pirates of that day were as sociopathic as Ned Lowe. And, that even fewer were as amusing and likable as the Gilbert and Sullivan variety." Jack had to press his lips together.

The taller man gave the tooth further scrutiny. When he removed the eyeglass and looked to the donor, he was grinning cheerfully.

"Well, Mr. Swift, I can tell you that the 1700's dating is correct, which is in itself a rarity. The vast majority of known scrimshaw was made in the 1800's, during the whaling industry's heyday, so whoever made this was something of a pioneer. Lack of written provenance is typical for such works, so that shouldn't seriously impact the auction value. Most collectors are more concerned about a piece's condition, and the esthetic quality of the graphic. In those regards, this piece is above average."

"Aye! Lionfish got it amazingly accurate, considerin' he'd probably never laid eyes on a krakken hisself."

The appraiser chuckled. "Probably! So, I can definitely accept this donation for the charity auction." He extended a few sheets of paper. "If you would please affix your 'John Hancock' on these?"

Jack commenced signing the documents, as the other transferred the precious tooth to a lined compartment in his briefcase. He was about to return the little cardboard box which had held the item, when he noted color within. The appraiser dipped a curious finger in, extracting a length of worn, patterned fabric, which might have been red in the distant past. "What about this?"

Mr. Swift looked slightly alarmed. "I were jus' keepin' it in the same box- I weren't planning ta donate that!"

"I wouldn't actually recommend you do so. Such commonplace, visibly-used objects are rarely of interest to collectors, unless connected with a well-known person or event."

"Probably not the case," Jack admitted.

The appraiser was still eyeing the translucent cloth. Obviously it hadn't spent it's existence inside a sewing basket. "However, artifact historians, such as myself, take a broader view. If this object has a provenance I'd be glad to hear it."

"It does, but again, no writin' ta back it up."

"Even unsubstantiated stories are often worth hearing." The lean gentleman opened one of his larger desk drawers, extracted a stemmed glass, and filled it from a promising amber bottle.

The donor's expression brightened. "Fair enough!" Swift took a appreciative sip from the glass and began. "It's connected to Lionfish's commander; one Captain Edward Teague- another buccaneer said ta have redeeming traits. Fierce at times, but not without ethics. A strict follower of the Code of the Brethren. Ever heard of that?"

"I've read some unconfirmed accounts."

"Not that he's much relevant to this tale. Teague had a wife, Chakori. A beautiful Indian woman- by which I mean, native of India. A gypsy ez well. They had one child; Jack. She had to raise 'im mostly by herself, since her pirate husband was mostly away at sea.

"Chakori also had a half-brother, Matsendra, who was an honest sailor. Jack knew him as Uncle Matt. 'Twas he who first inspired Jack's ambition ta become a seafarer, as soon as he reached the requisite age. Chakori was acceptin' o' this, provided Jack be accompanied by Uncle Matt when he first shipped out. Matsendra could teach him how to negotiate maritime hazards, including the various sods an' scalawags (some pretendin' ta be respectable), and the temptations of piracy. Chakori really didn't want her son takin' that up. Bad enough that she had to worry 'bout Teague finishin' his days at the end of a rope.

"But the ocean don't discriminate accordin' ta virtue. It were Uncle Matt who died young; his ship went down in a typhoon, when Jack was eleven. His Mum was sorely distressed, not only fer the loss of her last blood kin, but over her son's future. Jack was still resolved ta go to sea, even on his onesies.

"Chakori had a premonition, it seems. Without a protective mentor, her boy would most probably end up bein' pushed into a lawless lifestyle, as'd happened to his Da. There he'd have ample opportunity ta be transformed into a cruel bastard, such as she'd known all too many of."

Swift paused, glaring balefully at nothing. The appraiser smoothed down his light brown hair, waiting for the rest.

"Bein' a responsible Mum, Chakori didn't want any son of hers ta turn out like that. But she knew she'd not be around long enough ta steer him right, because by this point she was dyin' of consumption."

"Wait a moment- is this the woman Lionfish was kind to?"

"The same. That's why I figure he'd want your client ta get the benefit from his pretty tooth.

"Anyway, Chakori resolved to do what she could fer her boy, while she still could. So she took her final gift from Matsendra- a length of red silk- and fashioned it into a headscarf for Jack." Swift reached into the box, fingered the faded fabric. "When she gave it to him, it was accompanied by a story. Chakori had a rare talent fer tellin' yarns. She told about a fabled tribe in the mountainous regions of India, where wearing a red cloth around the head was the mark of a warrior. But not just any warrior; such a scarf indicated subscription ta certain points of Honor. These blokes didn't shed blood fer no cause at all. They stayed loyal ta leaders who proved worthy. Most importantly, they never forced themselves on lasses.

"When she finished this tale, Chakori tied the scarf around her son's forehead, jus' tight enough ta fit snugly. And she said this ta him: 'Never forget that any woman has the right to refuse you, for any reason or for no reason. If you do nothing else to honor my memory, honor this.'" Swift's hands fluttered a bit. "That don't allow fer many loopholes, eh?"

"None that I can see," the appraiser agreed, adding the signed papers to his briefcase.

"Chakori passed away about a year later. Jack then fulfilled his ambition ta go to sea. He made a try at bein' lawful, until he ran afoul of a major rotter, after which he did indeed become a pirate. By all accounts, he took to that life well. Became a Captain, an' a legend in his own time. He followed that life fer as long as he was able, did a number of things most folk'd consider disreputable. But he never once dishonored his Mum's memory."

Swift looked wistful for a moment. Then he smirked. "Not that that caused him any hardship. 'Twas said that Jack were such an irresistibly handsome blighter, he never ran short of willing wenches. An' he sported that headscarf fer many years, until it reached the condition you see." Jack gave the cloth a tender stroke. "After which he replaced it with other red accessories, of one sort or another, which he wore 'til the end of his days. 'Kept the original, though, which is how it's come down ta me."

"A fascinating provenance, indeed!" With a familiar sly look, the appraiser added, "If this scarf ever does come for auction, I might bid on it myself."

"Sorry, mate!" Swift pulled the box to his chest, closing the lid. "Much as I approve of yer client's cause, theer's some things what can't be given up fer charity nor shine."

"You've already contributed plenty," the appraiser assured, reaching to retrieve the empty wine glass. He stood and pumped Swift's hand- for such a skinny bloke he had a strong grip. "On behalf of the National Tuberculosis Association, may I extend thanks this generous donation, sir."

"Yer most welcome, Mr. Ragetti. Now, could you possibly direct me to the lifts?"

Jack hummed cheerily as he made his way out of the building. In the lobby, he paused upon catching sight of himself in a wall mirror. He stepped closer to the glass, with an almost reverent expression, and carefully straightened his tie.

A patterned, red silk tie...

---

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

In the early 1960s, President Kennedy's collecting habits precipitated an upsurge in the chicness, and price, of antique scrimshaw.

The National Tuberculosis Association was founded in 1904, for the purpose of reducing the spread of that disease in the United States and elsewhere, through both prevention and effective medical treatment.  
Their efforts were so successful that, in 1973, the organization's name was changed to The American Lung Association. Today their stated mission is "to fight lung disease in all its forms, with special emphasis on asthma, tobacco control, and environmental health."


	15. A Walk To The Sea

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx  
_

_April 6, 1930, near Dandi village, on the northwest coast of India_

xxx

It was fortunate he had his special compass to inform him this was the site, because there was nothing else to indicate it. Just tall dense grass, scrubby trees, and loud bird calls.

Jack shook his head in disappointment, shifting his broad-brimmed hat. "Not so much as two stones left together."

It was to be expected that anything which could be reused as building material would've been carried away, in this impoverished rural region. Still, Sparrow had hoped there would at least be a bit of foundation, or such, to show this had once been a farm. A modest house, tended fields, one barn to shelter the donkeys and goats, another to store the harvest. It didn't seem fitting there should be no sign at all that a family had once called this spot Home. Gypsies, who'd decided to stop roaming. Handsome, intelligent, middle-caste folk who had loved, educated their children, worked in the heat of day, danced in the evenings. Then (with two exceptions) been wiped out in a cyclone, along with all their efforts.

There ought to be some trace left... but, no. Only the indifferent-looking foliage, under hot clear sky. Jack could almost wish this was the monsoon season. A mournful sky would at least grant some illusion he wasn't the only being on earth who knew, or cared, that this family had ever existed.

Jack regarded the place a minute longer, then settled his hat into place. "'Might as well start back to Navsari now, afore any tigers or cobras come by ta give me trouble."

He turned to make his way back towards the donkey-cart track, which he could follow to the main road up the coast and back to port. As he neared the track, he heard a most unexpected sound; a distant tromping of numerous feet. Arriving at the road, he looked eastward. An unaccountably large crowd was approaching.

A military unit on the move? No- nobody seemed to be carrying weapons. A caravan? Unlikely, for he saw no load-bearing animals. This was simply a large group of men on foot, many dressed in the long white coats and round white caps favored in this region. Jack continued to watch as the procession drew nearer. Some of the walkers were eyeing him with suspicion, even moderate hostility. He supposed that his khaki shirt and shorts did look rather non-native. The ex-pirate almost scowled. In so many parts of the world, his 'coloured' blood marked him as an outsider. Here, it was his English half.

In the middle of the front row, one man was regarding him differently. An almost comical figure- bald, bespectacled, very thin. That was easily seen since the fellow wore nothing but some homespun cotton shawls, and plain sandals. Over a bristling mustache, two dark eyes twinkled as merrily as Jack's were known to. Unlike the others the expression he bestowed on Sparrow was welcoming.

"Good afternoon! Have you come to join us?" he called.

Startled by this out-of-the-blue friendliness, Jack took a second to answer. "Maybe, mate. That'd depend largely on where it is yer headin'."

The lean man lifted his walking staff, pointing it forwards. "To the ocean, to make salt! We've been walking for twenty four days. Now we're almost there!"

_/ Twenty four days? What kind of bloody salt is worth that? /_

Intensely curious, Jack moved forward, falling into step beside the strangely agreeable bloke. The man's escort did nothing to hinder him. Apparently this fellow had the final word on who could approach.

"I'm Jack Bharadwaj Teague," Jack offered, unthinkingly using the moniker he hadn't gone by since age twelve. For some reason he felt inclined to be open with this bright-eyed individual.

His new companion grinned delightedly. "You are the 'Fortunate Bird'? Then I hope you can spare some luck for us!"

Jack returned the smile. "Will if I can, mate."

"I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, the organizer of this event. We are most pleased to have your participation." Indeed, now that their leader had extended acceptance, the white-capped entourage was regarding Jack with semi-friendly interest.

"Thank ye. Though, you hardly look ta be shorthanded." Jack glanced back. The crowd of ordinary-looking Indians was even larger than had been immediately apparent; they stretched out of sight down the road. "Pardon my askin', but why such a large expedition over salt?"

One of the aides, a tall, eager-faced teenager, answered. "This is a _Satyagraha_. A mass civil disobedience. We're making this march to protest the laws forbidding the production or sale of salt by anyone other than the British Raj. What the Mahatma proposes to do is a criminal offense."

"Really!" Jack suddenly felt favorably disposed towards this human herd, and the deceptively frail-looking man whom, he now sensed, was actually a force to be reckoned with. "An' why does the Raj have such a daft law?"

"So people will be obliged to purchase the government-produced salt, which is heavily taxed," the boy continued. "It generates much revenue for the British government, but is a burdensome expense for the poor. No one can do without salt in this climate."

"Sounds like Cutler Beckett's brand of 'good business'," Jack muttered darkly.

Gandhi had taken note of Jack's swaying walk. "If I'm not mistaken, you are a seaman, Bharadwaj. May I ask what you're doing in Gujarat?" he inquired.

"I was in port at Navsari, an' thought I'd take a look at me ancestral homestead. Back theer." Jack jerked his head to the starboard aft. "But it turned out theer's naught left ta see."

Gandhi's bright face saddened. "Was your family's home one of those destroyed by a cyclone?"

"Yes, it was!" Jack was disproportionately grateful to discover somebody was aware such tragedies had occurred here. "Laid waste ta the fields, destroyed every structure, an' killed all but two family members. The survivors had naught left ta live off of here, an' not much inclination ta stay anyways. One of 'em made her way to England an' became my ancestor." Jack was careful not to mention the 'ancestor' was his mother. So far as he knew, this region's last serious cyclone might have happened prior to living memory.

There was a sympathetic murmuring among his listeners. The lean bloke nodded, regretfully eyeing the sparse fishing village they were passing through. "Violent storms are a recurring hazard in these lowlands, which is why so little of it is farmed. But," he added more brightly, "there are other kinds of harvests to be gathered here."

"Your illegal salt."

"Exactly. The salt tax is an oppression which the Indian populace as a whole can understand, and rally against. And once that degree of unity has been achieved..." the eye twinkle became mischievous, "... we can accomplish far more."

"Oho!" So, beneath the merry demeanor and odd mode of dress there lurked a shrewd strategist! Sparrow was liking this skinny bloke better all the time. "Yer goal ain't just to repeal these exploitive salt laws, eh? I suppose you have it in mind ta wrench one more jewel from the British crown?"

The bald man nodded. "Though I hope to avoid any 'wrenching' which could score the jewel. We shall achieve our objectives through nonviolent means only. Through peaceful protest and noncooperation, we shall persuade the British that India should be governed by her own people."

Jack blinked. This bloke was revealing greater depths with every spoken sentence. "'Twill certainly mark a new way of doing things, if you manage ta pull that off."

"It is possible. The world has changed in many other ways, has it not?"

_/ He's the one telling me this? /_ "I do wish ye the very best of luck with that, mate. Always believed a ship's crew should be the ones to decide who's ta be captain."

By now the dense greenery beside the track was giving way to sparser salt grass, as they neared the seashore. Gandhi led the way onto a muddy sand flat, dimpled with pale salt deposits. He and his entourage came to a halt just short of the surf line, where they stopped and waited for their many followers to catch up. Jack found a reasonably dry spot on the sand where he sat, assuming the cross-legged 'waiting position' Mum had taught him so long ago. It still worked.

The Mahatma greeted every arrival in turn, as cheerfully as if he knew them all personally. Most were Indian, but some, Jack noted, were Westerners. Mainly reporters, to judge from the cameras and notepads they carried. One was a gray-bearded photographer with a blue and yellow 'birdie' attached to his tripod. He almost reminded Jack of somebody, until he stepped up to Gandhi and exchanged loud-voiced solicitations.

Meanwhile, some of the white-capped aides prepared the simple salt-making apparatus; a pan of sea water suspended over an open fire. When this water reached a boil, Gandhi dropped in a carefully-gathered handful of salty clay.

The boiling took a while, but Jack never looked away. Though it wasn't much of a spectacle, something important to India's future was happening here.

_/ Not that it'll affect me much, but it'd matter to Mum's family. /_ Jack smoothed down his short mustache._ / Curious- I'm feelin' a stronger connection to 'em here, than I did at their farm site. /_

Late in the afternoon, the residue finally crystalized. In the final light of day, the triumphant Mahatma raised the fistful of salt, stark white in his brown fingers. The assembled watchers raised a cheer, rolling like thunder over the golden sea.

Jack witnessed it all from his place beside the surf. Under other circumstances he might've considered it farcical- this huge crowd, walking diligently for nearly a month, all to see a pinch of salt held in a skinny hand over a muddy beach.

But, just as Jack had detected considerable strength beneath Mohandas Gandhi's almost-clownish exterior, so too did he sense the start of something enormous, in that acorn-sized mound of white grains.

He very much hoped- as he knew his ancestors would- that this seed would flourish.

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_Historical Notes:_

_The taxation of salt had occurred in India long before the days of European colonization. However, this tax was increased manifold in the early 1800s, when the British East India Company began to establish its rule over Indian provinces. The practice paid huge dividends to the foreign traders, for many Indians were agricultural laborers who required it to work in the immense heat and humidity._

_When the Crown took over the administration of India from the Company in 1858, these taxes were not repealed. This monopoly meant that sale or production of salt by anyone but the British government was a criminal offense. The mineral could be easily gathered in the low-lying coastal zones of India, but it was illegal to do so- people were instead forced to pay for government-supplied salt. The penalty for doing otherwise could be up to six months imprisonment._

_Mahatma Gandhi began the Salt Satyagraha- a protest against the British salt tax- with the 'March to Dandi' on March 12, 1930. He walked 249 miles, from Sabarmati, Ashram, to the coast near Dandi, Gujarat, with growing numbers of his countrymen joining him along the way. On April 6, the marchers reached the shore. There, Gandhi boiled a lump of salty mud in sea water to purify the mineral- a deliberate violation of the law. Thousands of Indians soon followed his example, making their own salt or buying from non-government sources. Most historians see the Dandi Protest as a turning point in India's struggle for self-rule, since the march mobilized many new followers from all of Indian society, and also captured world attention._

_India officially gained political independence on August 15, 1947. Sadly, this achievement was accompanied by great civil unrest between Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, which killed many people and led to the partition of Pakistan._

_On January 30, 1948, the 78-year-old Gandhi was shot to death by a Hindu radical. Today he is widely regarded as the Father of India, and a major proponent of nonviolent civil disobedience as a method to achieve social change._


	16. Magnificent Insanity

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

----

April 15, 1821, South Pacific Ocean

---

Jack Sparrow leaned against the Surry's starboard railing, regarding the familiar panorama of waves in a pensive manner. After more than a century of roaming the seas, they still had power to shake him. Particularly with their capacity for capriciousness. Recent events had driven that home to him, even if (for once) they'd happened to someone other than himself.

He'd had no suspicion of what he was heading for, when he'd signed onto this trading vessel in Chile's Valparaíso port. Not until she'd disembarked for Asia had Captain Raine revealed they'd be making an unscheduled detour to the Pitcairn archipelago. Three shipwrecked sailors were reported to be stranded there, probably on tiny Ducie Island. Though this announcement had caused some disconcertment, no one voiced objection. Any seaman with a dram of experience knew: such misfortune could just as easily befall him someday.

Upon arrival at Ducie, Jack had volunteered to be among the searchers. But scouring that atoll revealed no trace of recent human inhabitation, so the Surry had continued westward, checking the neighboring land masses. On an as-yet-unnamed islet, they had found the castaways.

Jack winced to recall it. The three, upon spotting the searching longboat, had waded waist-deep into the surf, waving arms to attract attention. As he studied them on approach, Jack thought they might possibly be some far-flung victims of the cursed Aztec gold. On nearer exam, he'd established they were just ordinary humans, in a state of severe emaciation.

Hard to say which was more horrific.

The three-quarters-starved sailors had been bundled into the longboat and rushed back to the ship, into the care of the Surry's capable physician, Dr. Wetherby. It was two days later now- to everyone's relief, all three were on the mend. They'd even retained sufficient alertness to relate their story in detail... an incredible tale which might have been doubted, had it not matched that told by their previously-rescued shipmates in Valparaíso.

Their lost vessel was the Essex, a 87-foot-long whaler out of Nantucket, captained by George Pollard Jr. On Nov. 20, 1820- almost five months ago- the ship had been attacked and sunk in the South Pacific. Not by any human agency, but by a leviathan; a huge male sperm whale, perhaps 80 feet in length. With no apparent provocation, the animal had rammed straight into the Essex, not once but twice, inflicting such damage that she'd quickly foundered.

So far as was known, such a happening was unprecedented in the history of seafaring. Jack had a theory, as to how that beast had come to possess a level of vindictiveness comparable a human's, but he'd decided it must remain unspoken.

The twenty-man crew had escaped in three longboats, and tried to make their way eastward to South America. After a month of rowing, they'd reached a small island in the Pitcairns. Unfortunately, it had quickly proved inadequate to support so many people. Mere days later, 17 of the crew had rowed away in the boats, still hoping to reach the coast of Chile. Three of the castaways- William Wright, Seth Weeks and Thomas Chapple- elected to stay behind on the island.

Weeks later, two of those longboats had been found by passing vessels, but with only eight nearly-dead sailors still aboard. The fate of the other nine, as related by the survivors, was something Jack shuddered to contemplate. Though he'd had to do a number of distasteful things over the storied course of his life, he had (so far) never been obliged to resort to cannibalism.

Once brought to Valparaíso, the rescued sailors had recovered enough to tell of their three comrades left in the Pitcairn Islands. The trading ship Surry, which was just about to leave on a trans-Pacific crossing, was given instructions to try to locate and rescue the castaways. To his credit, Captain Raine had put in a full effort, with successful results.

The Captain had commended his longboat crew for braving the rough surf to retrieve the weakened men. Jack admitted to himself, Dr. Wetherby should receive at least equal credit for their survival.

Sparrow shifted against the rail, almost glaring at the tossing ocean. The crew of the Essex had earned a permanent berth among the annals of great sea adventures, but paid a higher price for it than he'd ever care to.

Familiar sounds caught his ear; someone was coming up the hatchway. Sparrow turned to see a figure emerge- very lean, with ragged flaxen hair and ill-fitting clothes. It was none other than one of the Essex crew, Seth Weeks. Two days of rest and proper food had wrought improvement, but the young man was still alarmingly underweight. Jack suspected he'd come topside without Wetherby's knowledge or approval.

Weeks carefully crossed the deck. Sparrow would have offered him a hand, but, from the set of that protruding jaw, knew it'd be refused. The whelp made it to the rail, slumping heavily against it. Jack edged nearer, ready to grab if Seth started to pitch overboard.

"'Afternoon, Mr. Weeks. Good to see you on yer feet." As grayish eyes met his, Jack smiled politely and added, "I'm Joshamee Rook."

"Glad to know ya," Seth replied, his voice firmer than his worn appearance had led Jack to expect. "Have we met?"

"Briefly. I was crewing the boat that brought ye aboard. Yer lookin' a sight better now."

"Couldn't easily have looked much worse."

A new noise erupted from the water- a loud exhalation from a yard-long triangular head, breaching off the starboard bow. Weeks jerked back from the rail, fear and rage flashing over his face.

The ex-pirate moved to grip his shoulder. "Steady, mate!"

Seth did indeed steady, though his eyes flashed sparks as he cursed the blueish baleened head. Jack supposed his attitude was understandable, if unbecoming.

"Easy, lad. 'Tis only a minke whale. Not even a full grown 'un. She couldn't do so much ez dent our hull."

The younger man grasped the rail again, fighting to get himself under control. He looked at the hand still on his shoulder, then to it's owner, almost resentfully. "Do you think me a coward?"

"I do not. I think ye've taken sore injury, such as will require a bit of recovery time. No blame fer that."

The fair head bowed over whitened knuckles. "'I was always taught, a dumb brute can't be held to account the way a man can. Still... has any beast ever inflicted suffering beyond bearing on you?"

Jack's gaze became haunted. "As it happens, yes. Not so protracted as what you and your mates endured, but 'twas the worst bodily anguish I've ever felt." He declined to go into detail. The searing agony of being simultaneously suffocated, crushed, and pierced by a hundred teeth, was something he preferred not to recall. Let alone recount.

Though it was hardly comparable to Seth's experience. That pain had only lasted... Jack wasn't sure if it was seconds or minutes. But certainly not months. His torment in the locker- yes, perhaps that had been similar. Responsibility for that lay with Jones, though. Not his terrible, doomed pet.

Weeks was speaking again, head still lowered. "Did it make you all afire to hunt the bastard down- pay back everything it deserved?"

"'Were no need to. Somebody else was takin' care of it. I, did see the carcass later." Sparrow spoke gravely. "Would've thought it would gladden me heart, ta perceive that direful threat was ended fer all time. But it didn't have any such effect. 'Twas actually quite a mournful sight."

He was aware of Seth's incredulous stare, but continued anyway. "When that critter died, so did a portion of the life I'd known. If such a formidable great beastie could be reduced ta gull food, then what else might pass away? Or already had? The world weren't ever going ta feel quite so full of possibilities again, mate. Not with the blank edges filled in, the mysteries gone..."

The other sailor was gaping blankly. Jack sighed within. "As I said, lad, 'twere a different breed of suffering."

How could he expect such a young whelp to understand? Some comprehensions could only be gained through experience, such as this fledgling would probably never have, now. And might not want to, after the hell he'd just been through.

Seth's next words confirmed it. "I'm quitting the sea. Goin' back to Cape Cod, soon as I can, an' never leaving land again!"

"No blame on you fer that, either." Privately, Jack considered this a highly regrettable response. For him, leaving the sea permanently wouldn't be significantly different from imprisonment.

"Tom... he's talking 'bout becoming a preacher."

Sparrow had heard of men being affected that way, too. It seemed an even less-likely possibility for himself, but he'd long since learned to be wary of using the world 'never.'

"His choice ta make. As is yer own. I jus' hope neither of you comes ta regard it as erroneous..."

An authoritative shout interrupted. "Seth! Whatever are you doing up here?"

It was the rotund and bewigged Dr. Wetherby, bouncing up from the hatch with a scowl on his kindly face. His tone was stern, rather than harsh. "You should not be on deck yet! Do you imagine such deprivations as you endured can just be shaken off?"

"No, Doc. I just needed to get some open air. Needed to... see it."

The smallish whale spouted again. Seth didn't recoil this time, though his jaw clenched. The doctor's gaze softened as he followed that stare. Then he took his patient's arm, with his usual careful touch.

"That's fine, then. You've seen it. Now please do come back to bed, young man." Seth made no resistance as he was escorted to the hatch. The contrast between his skinny figure and the doctor's was disconcerting.

Jack turned back to the sea, frowning as though it'd committed a breach of etiquette. The minke rose to take another breath, much further astern.

The lad hadn't mentioned what Bill Wright planned to do. Which most likely meant, Bill would go right back to seafaring. Many sailors who'd survived calamities did exactly that. Jack himself had, repeatedly. He gave the endless wavescape a straight, clear stare.

"Don't imagine you hide yer nature from me, wench. I know yer prone ta killing them what are most fond of ye. I've had more years 'en anyone ta witness such. I'm verra well aware, you might do as much ta me, someday.

"An' that doesn't change a thing. My first an' greatest love is still the sea.

"If this be insanity... at least 'tis a magnificent one."

--

FINIS

---

The Essex disaster was widely known in it's day, and is believed to have helped inspire Herman Melville's masterpiece, 'Moby Dick.' For a complete account, read 'In The Heart Of The Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex', by Nathaniel Philbrick.

The coral island where the Essex survivors were found is today named Henderson Island. Still uninhabited, it measures 6 by 3 miles, and has been designated a World Heritage site.

The Southern Minke Whale (Balaenoptera bonaerensis) grows to an average adult length of 25 feet. In all respects other than size, it resembles it's much larger relative, the Humpback Whale.


	17. ABBA Sang It Best

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

June 16, 1815, Brussels, Belgium

-

It was just past midnight, and the Duchess of Richmond's ball was progressing splendidly. That refined lady nodded approvingly, ringlets bobbing, as she surveyed the spectacle. Dozens of aristocrats gliding over the carpeted floors, amongst flower-wreathed pillars and walls hung with colorful fabric drapes. Elegant couples dancing quadrilles, sipping vintage wine, conversing- the highborn ladies in flowing silk gowns, the dashing men in red military coats and white breeches. Distinctive among them was handsome 1st Duke of Wellington Arthur Wellesley, the famously witty Duke of Brunswick, and the high-spirited young Lord Hay. And of course her own husband, Charles Lennox, 4th Duke of Richmond. The very pinnacle of Brussels society was gathered here tonight.

What finer way to honor the Allied officers assembled in Belgium, readying for the coming confrontation with the resurgent Napoleon Bonaparte?

She frowned as unesthetic element intruded on the scene. Mr. Pintel, the not-particularly-attractive footman, hurried in from the entrance, clasping a small folded paper. "Pardon me, Ladies and Gentlemen, but a dispatch has just been delivered for immediate perusal of the Duke of Wellington."

The hostess looked annoyed. "Mr. Pintel! Can this not wait?"

Pintel was almost assertive. "Madame, the messenger was most insistent this be conveyed without delay. It's a matter of military urgency."

Propelled by memory of the courier's authoritative tone, the bald footman marched directly to Wellington and presented the missive. The Duke took it, immediately recognizing the seal.

"It's from the Prince of Orange." An uneasy murmur arose from the guests. The Prince of Orange, aka William the Crown Prince of the Netherlands, was in command of the Dutch-Belgian forces currently stationed on the border between France and Belgium. The Duchess covered her mouth with one hand, resigned to voice no more objections.

Wellington unfolded the paper, setting his jaw grimly as he scanned the contents. "Bonaparte has crossed the border near Charleroi." The muttered anxiety of the guests increased threefold. Former Emperor Napoleon, recently returned from exile on Elba, had built a new army and was maneuvering to reclaim his former empire. This invasion could threaten Brussels itself.

Wellington looked to his concerned host. As commander of the reserve force in Brussels, the Duke of Richmond was responsible for the city's protection. "This requires our promptest attention. Are you in possession of a detailed map of Belgium?"

Richmond replied, "Yes- there is one in my dressing room. Ladies, please forgive us."

The two Dukes hastily exited the decorated ballroom, the footman unobtrusively following. Upon reaching the contrasting spare dressing chamber, Pintel positioned himself beside the door, watching from the side of his eyes.

Richmond hastily unrolled the relevant map, using shoes to weigh it down at the corners. He frowned at the inked outline denoting Charleroi. "What do you think that rotter's about, crossing the border there?"

"He's assuming his preferred 'central position', with the intent of dividing my forces from Blücher's. Bonaparte knows well enough, his only chance of regaining power is to neutralize the Coalition armies before they're reinforced. Undoubtedly he means to drive my own British forces back to the sea, and knock the Prussians out of the war. You know that in the past, Napoleon has defeated armies larger than his own by attacking them one piece at a time. I expected such a tactic, but not that he'd move with such speed!"

"Thank Providence, then, that this dispatch moved even faster. Everything depends on our forces all meeting his at the same place."

Wellington ran a hand over his short brown hair, scanning the map. "Napoleon has humbugged me, by God- he has gained twenty-four hours' march on me. I have ordered the army to concentrate at Quatre Bras, but we shall not stop him there, and if so, I must fight him..." his thumb moved over the map, to an area south-southeast of Brussels, "... there."

"Waterloo," Richmond muttered. The listening servant tilted his head.

"We must make haste." Noticing the footman, Wellington barked, "Mr. Pintel, prepare my horse at once! And if the courier is still here, convey the Crown's gratitude."

Pintel bowed, then hastened down the hall and out the back entrance of Richmond Palace. He started down the flagstone path towards the outbuildings, pausing between a large bush sculpted to resemble a hunched crow- quite sinister-looking in the dark. From behind this stepped the waiting courier; a figure of no great size, almost shapeless in the folds of a wrapped dark-gray cloak. The sharp black eyes- the only visible portion of his face- burned into Pintel's as he extended two silver coins and demanded, "What results?"

The footman puffed as he pocketed the coins; he'd done far more than the usual amount of running this night. "They're preparing to move out. Wellington's planning to take on Napoleon's forces southeast of here, at Waterloo. An' he said to extend thanks to you for your service to the Crown."

The wrapped figure snorted. "I didn't do it fer the bloody crown! No concern o' mine, which aristocratic arse occupies which throne. 'Twas fer the citizenry. I know some folk here, an' in England, that I wouldn't care ta see in any sketches such ez that Goya bloke drew."

"I know some folk, too." Footman and courier regarded each other keenly. Both of them knew what was truly worth defending.

A general hubbub was arising from the palace. Several soldiers sprinted across the lawn to the stables; just-awakened horses whinnied in shrill complaint.

Pintel glanced between that spectacle and the cloaked form. "I don't know whether anyone'll think to ask, but if they do, what'll I say your name is?"

The figure straightened proudly. "Norrington. James Norrington."

"I'll remember you, anyway. Excuse me, but I have a horse to saddle." The footman hurried off down the path.

Uniformed men were now rushing from the mansion in a steady torrent. Obviously the party was over.

Jack Sparrow melted back behind the leafy crow, letting the cape fall away from his face. It was probably best to keep out of view at this point; his lack of any uniform just might rouse suspicions. After all, he hadn't any proof that he'd come upon the desperate original courier- thrown, with an injured knee- and had spontaneously agreed to ride the last leg of this vital delivery run.

The outgoing stream of men on horseback seemed likely to continue for some while. Jack toyed with the idea of eventually following them to this soon-to-be battlefield at Waterloo. So long as he could keep an adequate distance from the shooting, it could be interesting to witness.

Not that he was going anywhere immediately. He'd want a good long rest before he got back onto any horse.

Sparrow tenderly rubbed his backside, flinching a bit. For the hundredth time, he resolved to learn proper riding skills as soon as possible. It wasn't like he couldn't spare the time for it.

In the meanwhile, Jack considered, there was another invaluable service he could provide. The ladies attending the palace ball must be sorely disappointed by the sudden egress of their dining and dancing partners. The poor lasses would doubtless be very appreciative, should another comely bloke show up to take their place.

Jack let the concealing cloak drop, using his palms to brush off his dark traveling clothes. Not the fanciest weeds, and a bit sweaty, but he didn't think those wenches would take much offense. Smiling, he settled his tricorne and sashayed towards the palace's brightly-lit entrance.

-

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

The Battle of Waterloo (June 18, 1815) famously put an end to Napoleon Bonaparte's attempt to forge another empire after his first 1814 exile (to Elba Island near Italy.) Timely arrival of the Coalition forces, led by Britain's Duke of Wellington, Prussia's Gebhard von Blücher, and the Netherlands' Prince of Orange, decisively routed the French army from the field. 'Waterloo' is now synonymous with 'a final crushing defeat.'

Napoleon was subsequently exiled to Saint Helena Island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, where he spent the remainder of his life. At age 51 he died of stomach cancer, on May 5, 1821.

-

Francisco Goya was the Spanish artist who, in the aftermath of Napoleon's 1808 invasion of Spain, created the 'Los Desastres De La Guerra' ('The Disasters of War') etchings. This series of 80 aquatint prints is an unsparingly grim visual recording of atrocities committed by the French troops during their occupation of Spain. Though Goya began creating them in 1810, the prints were not published until 1863.  
Jack apparently managed to get a sneak preview.


	18. Secrets To Keep

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

September 2, 1997

-

Sparrow was having a hard time keeping his anxiety under control. Which, he thought, was understandable. Being in an unknown location, with no memory of how he'd got there, was unnerving enough. Worse was being unable to move, or see much of anything. The only object he could make out was the blurry human-shaped form hovering silently above him. Apparently waiting for him to speak first.

Jack thrust his jaw forward, summoning the most authoritative tone he could manage. "Mate, I'm assuming this is some kind of joke, but I'm not really appreciative of the humor. So how 'bout ye jus' show me the way out now, afore I haveta consider pressing charges?"

The other spoke, his voice deep and vaguely gloating. "Mr. Uccello, I wonder whether you've heard of a recently developed technology used for personal identification, popularly called CPM- cranial-point matching."

The prisoner managed something like a shrug. "May've heard somethin' about it on the news."

"To explain it in simplest terms: using computer assistance, images of faces are graphed by marking the unique arrangement of certain parts of the skull. The resulting graph can then be superimposed over similarly marked photos of other faces, to check how the points match up. It's been a boon to the identification of unidentified corpses, and fugitives from the law."

"Fine an' good, but as I'm neither, that's got naught ta do with me."

"Oh, but I think it does. I happen to have access to a large database of historical photos, which I've fed through my own CPM comparison program. I believe you'll be interested in what I found."

To the left, several large illuminated black-and white photos appeared, perhaps mounted on a hidden light board. Five close-up shots of men's faces, all handsome blokes with dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. Each was marked with an arrangement of tiny white Xs.

The shadowed figure pointed to each face in turn. "Admiral David Farragut, Civil War hero. Signor Brocolini, one of the original members of the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company. Abraham Lincoln Salomon, Titanic survivor. Josh Moineau, popular sportswear model in the mid 50s. And reclusive yachtsman Marcus Uccello, taken just a short while ago." The last picture was of Jack's unconscious self. "Now, watch what happens when these images are superimposed."

The transparent images moved one by one, to sit atop each other. The white Xs matched up exactly.

Sparrow quirked an eyebrow, hoping his accelerated heartbeat didn't sound as plainly to the other as it did to him. "That is fairly amusin'. Are you plannin' ta market this as some kind of video entertainment? Could be I'm interested in investin'."

The shadowed man leaned closer, blocking all else from Jack's view. "You are considerably older than you look, aren't you, Mr. Uccello? Perhaps you could divulge now, what your secret is?"

"Good genes, I suppose," Sparrow answered with a restrained finger flutter. Whatever was holding him down didn't feel like ropes, shackles, or anything familiar.

His captor laughed heartlessly, running hard fingers down the side of Jack's face. "Let's be clear on something, David Signor Abraham Josh Marcus. You are going to tell me what I want to know. How much suffering you endure first is up to you, but I shall find out." The other's eyes started to glow orange, the caressing fingers burning into the bound man's cheek.

Jack yanked his head aside, anxiety giving way to panic. "Mate, be reasonable! Even if yer correct, this ain't anythin' what should be made common knowledge. Think what that'll do- what fightin' there'll be fer it! Hain't near enough ta go around..."

"Oh, I definitely agree this is not a matter to share. In fact..." The evil eyes flickered to vivid red, "... once do I know it, I intend to make quite certain I'm the only one who does..."

Hot flames leapt from the eyes, engulfing Jack's face, his chest- spreading to consume him. Sparrow screamed, lurching against his bonds, sat up...

Jack blinked hard. He was alone, unharmed, a familiar dark interior coming into focus around him... his own object-strewn bedroom, in his hillside villa on Capri Island. Surrounded by the Mediterranean Sea.

Jack slumped back into the pillows, moaned with combined relief and exasperation. "Never used ta have dreams like that." With knitted brows, he added, "'Cause possibilities like that didn't use ta exist." He could almost feel nostalgic for nightmares about mutinies and branding irons.

Turning his head, he checked his digital clock. Oh, bugger- 5:26 AM. No use trying to get back to sleep now.

Sparrow got up, threw a black silk robe over himself, staggered into the kitchen. He squinted as he opened the fridge, removing a half-full bottle of Morgan spiced rum. Often enough, he took impish delight in the label, imagining how the real Morgan would react to being depicted like a cartoon pirate from a Disney movie. This time, Jack wasn't in the mood.

He blinked to clear the light dots from his eyes as he crossed the floor and stepped outside, onto the curved terrace. Leaning hard against the white marble railing, he took his first swig, staring at the dark ocean below.

Jack truly loved this view. It was most beautiful in full daylight, when the sea was vivid blue, framed by dark pine branches and the attractive tile roofs downhill. This was the main reason he'd retained possession of this property, despite Capri's high taxes and maintenance costs. Not that he had any trouble affording them- it had been a while now since he'd had to worry about everyday expenses- but they were bothersome to deal with. As was having to periodically arrange a 'sale', whenever he assumed another alias.

And of course there was that vague unease over the way he'd acquired the place to begin with.

But he really had nothing to feel guilty about. It was hardly his fault that, in 1936, one of his 'business associates' had sensed an approaching downturn in his personal opportunities, and elected to relocate his family to America. Needing cash in a hurry, Albert Weinstein had offered to sell the villa to Sparrow for a bargain-basement price. Neither man had realized at the time, that the anticipated turbulence was liable to threaten anything beyond Weinstein's financial concerns.

By the time the subsequent war ended, it had, of course, become sickeningly clear the stakes had actually been far more dire. Jack, who'd always had reservations about exploiting desperate people, felt obliged to track down Weinstein in New York City, intending to offer to sell the property back to him. And to be flexible about the price, depending on how well that shrewd gentleman had done for himself.

It turned out that, financially, his former associate had prospered, but that hadn't prevented his 1948 death from a heart condition. Neither Weinstein's wealthy widow nor his three offspring were interested in returning to Europe- the former on principle, the latter because they were well-assimilated young New Yorkers.

So Jack had retained the villa. He didn't consider it his home... had never actually stayed here longer than one month at a time. But any temptation to unload it became unthinkable, whenever he took in this sumptuous ocean view. Day or night, it soothed him as few onland vistas could.

A mild predawn wind was blowing, making the pine branches whisper, gently pushing something against his ankle. Jack glanced down- it was a page from the newspaper he'd left out here last evening. As the sheet fell back against the mosaic surface, he recognized the front page photo, smiling under the banner headline. A face he'd been happily familiar with for several years now.

Jack sighed anew. It was likely that headline was connected to his bad dream, and current dismal mood. After all the incidents of carnage he'd heard accounts of, and occasionally witnessed, it seemed absurd for him to be so affected by one woman's premature death. But, there it was.

He recalled the first time he'd ever seen her image. February 1981, whilst buying a few supplies at a dockside store. Glancing over the headlines while waiting in line. It was front page news that Prince Charles had finally got hisself engaged. The lucky lady's photo had held Jack's eye, not just because she was a pretty lass, but due to a certain vague familiarity.

Intrigued, Jack had made his way to the port town's largest library- big enough to include records of the major British peerages. After some leafing, he'd been disproportionately pleased to confirm his hunch. Diana Spencer, the new future Queen of England, was his own cousin. Quite a few times removed, aye, but the link was definite. As, he smugly considered, was the family comeliness.

For the first time in his life, Jack had seriously considered claiming a peerage. This almost-magical new DNA technology could prove his bloodline, and he liked the idea of being able to attend the upcoming nuptials- through the front door, no less! His despicable grandparents, and their even more despicable family nemesi, were long gone. And their known descendants all looked to be silly, harmless blighters.

But then it occurred to him: the keepers of peerage records would want to establish through whom, specifically, Jack was connected to Diana's line. He was not clear on just how much a DNA sample could reveal- it was possible it could ascertain precisely which of Diana's ancestors he was the scion of. And if that were ever confirmed, or even suspected...  
Jack gulped the rum, shuddering anew. His chronological age was something he must conceal at all costs. Exposure could jeopardize his personal freedom, possibly even his life (as his just-past nightmare reminded.) There were any number of powerful people on this planet who'd unhesitantly go to extremes, to learn how a former 18th-century pirate captain managed to stay perpetually young.

That was the interval when Jack first resolved to scrupulously avoid any and all procedures which might involve a DNA exam. And also when that particular scenario- being in the clutches of someone determined to learn about the Fountain- first started invading his dreams.

Not that it'd troubled him much during daylight hours. Very soon, it seemed as though Diana Spencer's face was peeking at him from every bloody magazine rack and newsstand he happened to pass. He allowed himself to fancy she was smiling at him, as if she knew the secret of their kinship. He'd developed a habit of giving his cousin a companionable nod in return.

In July '81, when the royal wedding was broadcast, he looked in on it for about an hour.

When the two pregnancies and births came along, he toasted them in the privacy of his own cabin.

When the marital strife became public, he was saddened, though not shocked, being aware that Liz and Will's level of devotion had been exceptional.

When the divorce was announced, he spent several minutes lecturing to a distraught newspaper photo. Miserable though she might feel now, Diana was undoubtedly better off without that overbred royal rotter.

Then, yesterday, far more devastating news had flooded every media conduit in existence. Half the world was reacting as if they, too, had lost a family member. Which made Jack irrationally annoyed- who were these unrelated masses, to claim such right to mourn her?

The answer, of course, was that they had the very same grounds that he did. Jack had never spoken to Diana, had never seen her in person, had never even bought one of those bloody magazines. 'Twas nothing more than a childish fantasy that they'd ever been anything to each other, outside of his own imagination. How ridiculous of him to be indulging in such whims at his age!

Why, he hadn't even lost his nearest kin in the world- there were others in the peer records who were a generation or two closer. Though, of course, none of them would ever be grinning merrily at him from the newsstands. As Diana never would again, either.

Jack swallowed some more rum. 'Twas just an imaginary loss, he knew. But it felt like a real one.

The stars were starting to wink out, as the horizon lightened to milky blue. Sunrise was approaching. In just a few hours, he had that meeting with Chevalle, Ammand, and the six other investors. Afternoon would bring a far more agreeable task; inaugurating his new cruising yacht, the Good King Bess (when asked, he always replied that Good Queen Bess was already taken.) Putting out to sea should help him feel like himself again.

For now, though, the melancholy lingered. It seemed so unfair for some folk to be granted so few years. He'd have gladly given Diana some of his own. Maybe he could've... no, there was no point thinking about that now.

Beyond the hedge of trees to his left, he heard a radio coming on. That early-rising neighbor of his, with the preference for American Classic Rock stations. Jack made to withdraw from the terrace... paused, when he recognized the singer's voice. Dan Fogelberg was unobjectionable. In fact, this particular song was entirely appropriate to the hour. Jack leaned back onto the cold stone rail, eyes still on the lightening sky. Almost unconsciously, he sang along:

_The sounds of the day, they hurry away,  
Now they are gone until tomorrow...  
When day will break, and you will wake,  
And you will rake your hands across your eyes,  
And realize..._

_That it's going to be a day;  
There is really no way to say No  
To the morning.  
Yes, it's going to be a day,  
There is really nothing left to say but  
Come On, Morning._

The first yellow sliver of sun peeked over the horizon, shimmering like a blown candle. Jack somberly toasted it with the last bit of the rum, his braids and sash flapping in the warm Mediterranean wind.

"Fair winds to ye, Cousin," he whispered, and slowly swallowed it down.

---

FINIS

---

Song lyrics are from _To The Morning _by Dan Fogelberg.


	19. Strangers On A Ship

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

March 8, 1866, on the Pacific Ocean between San Francisco and Honolulu

-

The bushy-mustached young man bouncing along the Ajax's causeway had every reason to look, and feel, smug. Samuel was sure his recently acquired job had to be among the best in the world- what profession other than newspaper correspondent would pay him to take a pleasure cruise to Honolulu? And all he must do in exchange was send back letters describing his experiences there. A better deal by far, than any in his long list of previous endeavors.

And since travel-writing only required attention from the ephemeral portion of his brain, the deeper parts would be free to plan more profound works- to compose stories meant to do more than just incite laughter (not that humor wasn't an excellent vehicle under which to sneak in a social comment or two.) It might be years before his gathering ideas incubated sufficiently for him to write them down, but as he was barely thirty years old, Sam was confident he'd get around to them.

In the meanwhile, he was greatly enjoying the adventure of his first sea voyage. This was his second day out. His insides had finished adjusting to the constant motion, allowing him to appreciate the singularly beauty of sunlight on endless blue water. Quite a change from the Mississippi River!

Upon reaching the ocean steamer's foredeck, Samuel noted a full-bearded fellow in a dark-blue jacket standing at the rail, looking intently downwards. Sam stepped over to follow the man's gaze, and nearly recoiled with alarm. In the water beside their ship basked a creature as big as a plow horse, sporting a swaying mass of pinkish tentacles and an enormous yellow eye.

"What in blazes is that??'

The other's eye twinkled- a seafarer amused at a landlubber's ignorance. "'Tis just a squid. Surely ye've heard of such?"

"Yes, but I'd no idea they came in that size!"

"I've seen bigger. But there's naught to worry about, mate. That variety which grew large enough to scuttle a ship is long gone." For some unfathomable reason, the bearded man made this pronouncement with some regret.

The hideous/ magnificent example of ocean fauna was now falling astern. A few other passengers shouted excitedly upon spotting it, before the fascinating monster vanished among the waves.

Sam watched the beast out of sight, then looked to his equally interesting fellow traveler. A fine-looking chap, if slightly odd. Small mustache, prominent cheekbones, dark hair of sufficient length to brush his jacket collar. The man's age was hard to deduce, though the coffee-brown eyes held sufficient depth to suggest he was the elder of the two. The fledgling journalist sensed it would be worthwhile to make his acquaintance.

"We haven't been properly introduced, have we? I'm Samuel Langhorne Clemens, former river steamboat pilot and current travel correspondent for the Sacramento Union."

He offered a handshake, which was promptly accepted. The seaman's tanned fingers were smallish, but gripped firmly.

"Jack Turner, recently of the Union Navy. Now intendin' to determine what opportunities await in the Sandwich Islands. And ta verify rumors I've heard about the accommodating lasses there." he added with a cheeky smirk.

The young correspondent grinned in kind. "That's a splendid idea! If I wasn't already admirably situated, that's what I would do." Giving the Ajax's billowing smoke stacks a glance, Clemens added, "It's well we have such a fast vessel- I can't get started soon enough!"

The other eyed the belching smoke with less enthusiasm. "She moves at an admirable clip."

Sam fished into a pocket for a cigar. "But...?"

Jack blew a pensive breath. "Not to complain, but I've a definite preference fer sails. My last com... ship I traveled on, had 'em."

Mr. Clemens concluded this salt must be far older than he looked. As he lit his cigar, Sam commented, "I will readily concede, sir, that a rigged vessel is a most handsome sight. Still, one must consider the practical aspects. A wind-driven ship would take three months to reach the Sandwich Islands, In contrast, the Ajax is scheduled to arrive in less than two weeks. And with no chance of being stranded in any doldrums en route."

For an instant, the other looked almost stricken. "Aye, that's a situation well worth avoidin'."

This could be a voice of experience. Sam regarded Jack with open curiosity. "Might I inquire, Mr. Turner, which sailing career is your preference; wartime or non?"

"Non. By a long shot."

"Even given the benefits of winning a glorious victory?"

"Came at a price, didn't it? Even towards the very end." Jack averted his gaze, not quite fast enough to hide the regret.

"Mmmm." Clemens turned the cigar between his fingers. It was a little less than a year now, since the Union's Commander In Chief had been gunned down- recently enough to still be an open wound for many Northerners. Even a few of Sam's countrymen had come to realize, the demise of a leader who'd called for "malice towards none, charity for all" was unlikely to do the South any good.

He took another puff. "By any chance, were you personally acquainted with Mr. Lincoln?"

"Aye. In a professional capacity. 'Merited an invitation to the funeral, anyway." Jack made no mention of being one of the pallbearers. He'd recently transferred his Admiral Farragut identity to a worthy old tar in desperate need of a pension, and didn't want to jeopardize that arrangement.

"At the least, you can take comfort in knowing your President lived to see his objectives achieved. Secession is undone, and slavery abolished for all time." At Jack's surprised look, Samuel added, "Perhaps my regional accent led you to believe I would not favor such an outcome?"

"It did occur to me." Turner regarded his fellow traveler with matching curiosity. "Might I know where you're from, Mr. Clemens?"

"Missouri. A little town by the name of Hannibal. And I will freely confess, sir, that around the war's beginning, some friends and myself did attempt to organize a Confederate militia." He made a fluttering-finger gesture worthy of Jack. "That campaign disbanded after all of two weeks, and I ended up making my way to the Southwest Territories, where I remained through the war years. But if I had joined the fighting, it would've been for the purpose of repelling the Yankee Invader, not to preserve the 'peculiar institution'. And yes, my good man, I am aware the two causes were inextricably interwoven. My point is, not every Rebel soldier was a despicable slave keeper. As, I imagine, not every Union one was a selfless abolitionist. I do not believe any human conflict has ever been fought along such clearly divided moral lines."

Jack Turner nodded. "We're of one mind there. Still, the 'peculiar institute' was overdue fer elimination. That was my primary motivation fer joining the Navy- I thought it'd put my shipboard skills ta better-en-average use."

Noting the uncertain edge in the man's voice, Samuel asked, "And did it?"

"Aye, so far ez the results are concerned. But as already mentioned, theer was a cost." Jack's eyes shut a moment, remembering the rows of covered bodies on the post-battle deck of the Hartford. Such a deplorable waste of admirable men. As must've been the case on the other side, too. "That'll be the last time I ever deliberately participate in a war."

Samuel's journalistic instincts were perking like a hunting dog's ears. "Tell me, Mr. Turner, had you any involvement in the abolitionist movement prior to the declarations of secession?"

"Can't say I did. Though I absolutely agreed with their convictions. Never could abide the idea of people being owned- been a bit too close to that situation meself, once 'er twice. An' I certainly never wanted ta have anythin' ta do with the slave trade! Vile business." Turner deliberately draped his left hand over his right forearm. "On one occasion, I paid a high price fer that preference."

Clemens quirked a bushy eyebrow, but was careful to keep his tone casual. "What price was that?"

Jack seemed to be looking deep into him. Sam was struck anew by the ageless quality of that angular face. "I'll need your word, Mr. Clemens, that you'll treat this as strictly confidential."

Samuel drew the cigar away from his mouth. "You have my word on it, Mr. Turner. Any journalist worth his ink understands the principle of discretion."

Jack slowly pulled back his right jacket cuff, revealing a pale scar on his wrist, such as a deep burn would leave. Upon perceiving it's most un-accidental shape, Clemens nearly dropped his cigar. The man had been branded!

"Whatever did you do, to merit such a barbaric penalty?"

"I made a choice between doin' what respectable society thought I ought to... and, doin' right by some folk who stood ta lose everything. I decided people ain't cargo." Jack tugged the sleeve back into place, his expression somber but resolute. "'Twas fortunate fer them, that I was too young an' inexperienced ta understand what I stood ta lose. But even so... no regrets in the long run."

Samuel regarded his new acquaintance with budding respect. "I commend your decision, sir. Tell me, have you dictated any memoirs about this experience?"

Jack shook his short mane. "Can't really do that. I've reasons ta prefer it not be remembered- not in connection with me, anyway. Which is why I requested yer confidence." The dark gaze held just a shadow of threat.

The younger man lifted a hand. "I assure you, Mr. Turner, I intend to keep it. What I am considering, is including the dilemma you describe in a work of fiction. A novel I'm currently planning, to be specific."

Turner brightened. "Yer a yarn-spinner? Aye, no harm in usin' it that way, lad! Might I know what ye plannin' ta call this tale?"

"It's rather early to choose a title. This book will be a few years in the making. I should mention; for my published works, I use a pen name."

"An' what would that be? I'd rather like ta read this, when it sees print."

He could hardly rebuff such childlike enthusiasm. Sam smiled and leaned close, cigar flicking playfully.

"In deference to my days navigating the Mississippi, my non de plume is 'Mark Twain'."  
---

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

Mark Twain's classic novel, 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' (first published in 1884) includes a key passage where Huck must decide whether to turn in runaway slave Jim and thereby gain social acceptance, or to preserve Jim's freedom and remain a social outcast. Huck makes the second choice.

The Sandwich Islands was the name given to the Hawaiian Islands by Captain James Cook, upon his discovery of that archipelago in 1778. He did this in honor of one of his sponsors, John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich.  
By 1900, the name had fallen into disuse. The origin of 'Hawaii' is subject to debate, but it was under that moniker that the islands were granted statehood in 1959.


	20. Last And Best

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

_May 7 1824, Vienna, Austria_

It was striking, Jack mused, how often he stumbled into worthwhile things whilst pursuing entirely different matters.

Vienna was one of several cities he liked to visit regularly. Among other recommendations, it was home to some of the world's finest pastry chefs. His favorite locale for sampling their latest creations was Demel's Söhne, with it's mirror-and-black-marble decor and oh-so-tempting window displays. On this occasion Jack had dropped in at midday- the establishment's busiest hour- so had been obliged to share a table.

Which was not a matter of regret, since the table's other occupants were ladies. One was a comely young Fräulein with pale blonde ringlets, light blue eyes and a becoming beige silk gown. Marta von Karajan by name, daughter of a successful furrier. As any decent society lass would be, she was accompanied by a chaperon. Frau Detweiler was stern-faced matron whom, Jack swore, would only need to tuck that iron bun under a Naval wig to pass for Lt. Andrew Gillette.

Both wenches had been impressed when Jack introduced himself as Captain Bartholomew Raven, of the merchant vessel _Distressing Damsel_, currently docked in Trieste for maintenance and loading. 'Madame Gillette' kept eyeing him warily, but this didn't impede her charge's pleasant chatter about the excellent quality of their pastries; faschingskrapfen, doboschtorte, and Spanische windtorte.

She and 'Captain Raven' moved on to discussing cultural events in the city. Fräulein von Karajan revealed she would be attending a concert this eve; the premier performance of a symphony by Ludwig van Beethoven, who would also be conducting. Marta had enjoyed that German composer's previous eight symphonies so had high expectations for this one. She would, she assured, be delighted to have the Captain accompany her to this concert. Along with Frau Detweiler, of course.

Jack had no great fondness for orchestral works, holding the view that a truly good tune didn't require a bloody shipload of instruments to carry it. A violin, guitar or harpsichord should suffice, with maybe a fife or accordion accompaniment. Employing forty musicians at a time was just upper-class ostentatiousness. Nonetheless, Jack accepted this invitation, seeing it as an opportune chance to become better acquainted with the beauteous Marta. Perhaps a lot better. Frau Detweiler would be no impediment; he was well-practiced at outmaneuvering chaperons.

So here he was in the Kärntnertortheater (an imposing tan vault of a building), reconsidering his opinion about full-size orchestras. The loud volume really was apt for this composition, particularly through the Scherzo Movement. The thundering booms were so strongly reminiscent of an ocean squall, Jack kept glancing up to check for lightening damage to the rigging. Why, he was even on the verge of forgetting the comely lass at his side, being so immersed in the evoked images. His hands clenched as though gripping a wheel; his neck kept jerking to shed the imagined rain.

When the movement ended it was immediately demonstrated his enjoyment was shared- the applause was enthusiastic and protracted. Rather archly, Jack speculated these toffs probably appreciated the chance to experience a storm without any risk of getting wet.

But the lively conductor/ composer seemed unmoved. His attention remained fixed on the orchestra, arms lifting to signal the beginning of the third movement. Then a woman with long dark hair darted from the seated chorus line, taking the man's wrist to turn him around. With great respect she led him upstage past the dazzling footlights, to a spot where he had a clear view of the cheering people. The composer appeared startled, as if only now realizing he had an audience.

Perplexed, Jack paused in his clapping. "What's wrong with that bloke?"

The chaperon leaned over to answer him. "Herr Beethoven is deaf."

Sparrow's jaw dropped. "Surely you jest?"

"I wouldn't know how to, Captain," was Frau Detweiler's frosty and believable reply.

Jack couldn't control his gape. A deaf man had composed this? He'd thought that, after all he'd lived through, he was past being gobsmacked by anything. But apparently that view was also in need of amendment.

The applause finally died down. Beethoven returned to his dais, to conduct the subdued Third Movement. This served as a necessary breath-catching interval, for the Fourth Movement proved to be the other half of the storm.

The even more-thunderous half.

This, Jack thought in the midst of it, must be how it felt to be a soaring bird exuberantly buffeted among storm clouds. Particularly if those clouds were singing in joyful chorus. At moments the conductor actually seemed on the verge of taking off, gesticulating furiously, gray hair flapping as if blown by the tempestuous gale which was his symphony.

The crashing coda came to a halt, as suddenly as a ship flung onto a reef. Two seconds of stunned silence lapsed before the audience erupted, surging to it's collective feet. Brilliant-eyed Marta shouted "Bravo!" with surprising force for such a delicate chit. No doubt she felt as empowered by the experience as everyone else seemed to be. Jack applauded loudly as possible, before suddenly realizing it would never be loud enough.

A thought came to him. Without hesitation Jack grabbed off his hat- a costly red-plumed bauble, recently purchased in London- and flung it to the greatest height he could. The feathered object arched high above the cheering crowd, descending gracefully as a hawk in stoop.

Instantly the audience followed this cue: the air was suddenly thick with hats and handkerchiefs- most waved rather than thrown- along with numerous flailing hands. A visual display every bit as expressive as the most boisterous applause.

The standing ovation continued through five cycles, Jack's contribution never flagging, his smile wide and real. Orchestral works would never again be a target for his scorn.

The musicians and singers, and the triumphantly weary Beethoven, bowed repeatedly. Once, when that gray-frilled head came up, Jack fancied those heavily-browed eyes met his his own, bestowing gratitude. But it was the composer who deserved it. The man had given Jack, and the world, a spectacular listening experience which he himself could never share.

Sacrificing a hat seemed terribly slight repayment.

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_The following Historical Notes are edited from the Wikipedia account:_

_Beethoven's ninth (and final) symphony premiered on May 7, 1824, in the Kärntnertortheater in Vienna. This was the composer's first on-stage appearance in twelve years; the hall was packed. Beethoven was turning the pages of his score and beating time for an orchestra he could not hear._

_As violist Josef Bohm recalled, "Beethoven directed the piece himself; that is, he stood before the lectern and gesticulated furiously. At times he raised, at other times he shrunk to the ground. He moved as if he wanted to play all the instruments himself and sing for the whole chorus. All the musicians minded his rhythm alone while playing."_

_When the audience applauded- testimonies differ over whether it was at the end of the scherzo or the whole symphony- Beethoven was several measures off and still conducting. The contralto Caroline Unger walked over and turned Beethoven around to accept the crowd's cheers and applause. The whole audience acclaimed him through five standing ovations; there were raised hands, handkerchiefs and hats in the air. Beethoven, who could not hear the applause, could at least see the ovation gestures. The theater house had never seen such enthusiasm._

_Today, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is one of the best-known works of the Western repertoire, considered both an icon and a forerunner of Romantic music. The choral section from the fourth movement (the 'Ode to Joy') has been rearranged by Herbert von Karajan into what is now the official Anthem of the European Union._

_x_

_Pastry Notes:_

_Demel's Söhn__e, off the Michaelerplatz square, __is one if Vienna's premier patisseries. It was founded in 1786 by Ludwig Dehne._

_'Faschingskrapfen' is a round fried-dough confection, filled with apricot jam._

_'Doboschtorte' is a multilayered sponge cake with chocolate cream filling and caramel-glaze topping._

_'Spanische windtorte' is a whipped-cream-filled meringue cake._


	21. As Tears Go By

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

May 23, 1982, Key West, Florida

-

_"A long, long time ago,  
I can still remember how that music  
Used to make me smile...  
And I knew if I had my chance,  
That I could make those people dance  
And maybe they'd be happy for a while..."_

The low voice was coming from a very short man- a dwarf, actually- seated on the next bench down from Jack's. He was softly singing to the music of a talented street musician- a young Haitian flutist, whose instrument was connected to an amp so all Mallory Square could hear. The dwarf's performance, in contrast, was strictly for himself.

_"The February made me shiver,  
With every paper I'd deliver,  
Bad news on the doorstep,  
I couldn't take one more step..."_

Sparrow rather liked the ambiance of Key West... the sense of being at the edge of things. Small wonder it'd gained a rep as a haven for misfits of all sorts (a bit less so now, than before they'd built all those causeways), or that the Pearl's shortest crewmember had chosen to retire here. That singer on his left resembled Marty enough to be his descendant, but Jack refrained from addressing him. Even if this was Marty's progeny, the odds were he knew nothing of his ancestor's piratical heritage.

_"I can't remember if I cried  
When I read about his widowed bride,  
But something touched me deep inside  
The day, the music, died..._

_"So bye-bye, Miss American Pie,  
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,  
Them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye,  
Singing this'll be the day that I die,  
This'll be the day that I die..."_

It hardly looked or felt like February. This was, in fact, a beautiful early summer day. And Don McLean's notion of 'A long, long time ago' was undoubtedly far different from his own. None the less, Jack found the semi-morbid lyrics conducive to this sad anniversary. May 23 was the date Joshamee Gibbs had been killed, in a running battle between two Naval brigs and the Black Pearl, fleeing the no-longer-sanctuary of Tortuga. Though his ebon ship had escaped, one of the last fired shots had cut Gibbs down on the quarterdeck. A fast death, if not a clean one.

As far as Jack was concerned, the age of piracy, as he'd known it, had ended that day.

Learning of Hector Barbossa's passing, just a week later, had finalized that scuttling. The aging scalawag had been caught in a similar ambush, off a hithertofore safe anchorage, and hadn't managed to outrun it. From all reports, he'd gone down fighting, which was exactly what the blaggard would've wanted. First to the finish, then.

Captain Sparrow had taken that as a signal to make his own exit, and did so within the month. His own supposed end was far less glorious, but necessary to maintain the fiction- faking a death in battle would've required more participants than he could trust to keep quiet. But a single greedy Madame with financial motives to continue the deception... that he could count on.

So now, quite a few years later, Jack was in Key West's popular northwest corner, listening to a fine street musician, while his cabin cruiser, the Dizzy Izzie, received her annual maintenance work. Mallory Square was well populated with tourists during this season, particularly college students just coming off spring semester. Straight ahead, Jack could see a group of such, buying slices at the key lime pie stand (one long-haired lass apparently writing down the recipe.)

He himself had just received the benefit of a different spring; his latest dip in the Aqua de Vida. It was his habit to take it easy for a few days afterwards, to try to establish what 'bonus gift' he'd received this time. These weren't always obvious. Once, it'd taken five years for him to notice he could tolerate low temperatures better than he'd ever had before. Sparrow had almost commemorated this with trip to the south pole... it was just as well he'd changed his mind.

_"I met a girl who sang the blues,  
And I asked her for some happy news-  
She just smiled and turned away.  
I went down to the sacred store,  
Where I'd heard the music years before,  
But the man there said the music wouldn't play..."_

Nowadays, if the 'bonus' wasn't apparent within a week, Jack would visit a fertility clinic to establish whether his sterility had been corrected. If that ever happened, he wanted to know about it. That change would necessitate taking specific precautions. And also open certain possibilities.

_"And in the streets the children screamed,  
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed,  
But not a word was spoken;  
The church bells all were broken...  
And the three men I admire most,  
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,  
They caught the last train for the coast  
The day, the music, died..."_

As his diminutive neighbor almost whispered the final chorus, Sparrow's finger strayed to the scar dissecting his own left eyebrow. A souvenir from the night of Barbossa's mutiny. Jack had been so infuriated by the betrayal, he'd broken his own rule against getting into fights he couldn't hope to win. A breach which had very nearly cost him an eye. The remnant of that slash, and the faded P on his wrist, were the two marks from his original life which'd been least affected by his subsequent rejuvenations. Almost as though the Aqua de Vida discriminated according to importance. Perhaps it did. Sentient water wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd ever encountered.

_American Pie_ concluded. 'Marty' vacated the bench and moved purposefully towards the docks- perhaps he was just a tourist after all. The young Haitian began playing some Broadway tune, possibly from 'South Pacific'. Jack didn't bother to specifically identify it, his memory being occupied elsewhere.

His recollection of Gibbs' death was still tinged with, if not quite regret, at least uncertainty. Jack still wondered whether, had he shared the secret of the Fountain with Josh, he would've had the man's agreeable companionship through the intervening years. Though it probably wouldn't have made any difference. Odds were they'd have ended up in that same ambush, in which case his first mate would've been killed anyway. Or, the two might have elected to go their separate ways, leaving Sparrow just as alone as he was now. It was even possible Gibbs would've refused the treatment outright. Others had.

For some while now, Jack had been on the lookout for people worthy to receive the Fountain's benefits. Even if they weren't willing to stick by him permanently (something he wasn't sure he wanted anyway), he liked the notion of having somebody in the world who knew who he was... of being truly visible to at least one other human being. Even occasional meetings with such an individual would be a great comfort to him.

But it was discouragingly hard to find anyone with the right credentials. It would have to be a person for whom he had deep fondness (preferably reciprocated), who was responsible enough to never breath a word about the Fountain, and who possessed sufficient savvy to manage a periodic change of identity. That last had become far more difficult through the just-past century, with it's insistence on written documentation- birth certificates, driver's licenses, passports and such. Fortunately, a bribe in the right place still worked wonders.

Sparrow had seriously considered several candidates over the years. There'd been Lady Hiroko, the Japanese fencing master who'd taught him Asian swordsmanship. Rather plain of face, but transcendently beautiful in motion- graceful, controlled, powerful as a panther, with steely intelligence beneath. Jack thought it a fine prospect, for her to practice and teach her art indefinitely. But a few philosophical discussions revealed she was of too stoic an outlook to want immortality. A person who considered life and death to be essentially the same would find little appeal in what the Aqua de Vida offered.

There'd been Shimza Jancsi, that raven-tressed Gitane he'd known in Málaga. A girl so brimful of life she energized any space she entered. The brilliant sparks they'd struck off each other, dancing far into the night... such an incandescent spirit should shine well beyond her own time. Unfortunately, after consuming half a bottle of oloroso sherry she'd demonstrated sufficient lack of discretion to disqualify her from being awarded such a dangerous secret.

There'd been old Chayna, the impressive Incan matriarch he'd encountered in Peru, possessed of wisdom as ageless as the Andes. A mind with such depth and compassion as hers should've been allowed to dispense advice for ages. Jack had gone so far as to explain the entire situation to Chayna, and she'd been appreciative. Regrettably, the woman was too closely attached to the earth to consider stepping aboard a ship, and too frail to make the journey to Florida overland. A bloody shame, that. There'd been many an occasion since, when he'd have exchanged his weight in gold for a chance to talk with her again.

There'd been marvelous Thelma Griffin... actually, she'd had only one credential, which had dispelled as soon as the night ended.

In fact, Jack reluctantly admitted, he might never find anybody suitable. This was a possibility he preferred not to contemplate for any length of time.

A large and noisy family was crossing the Square. Sparrow glanced over, noticed the smallest boy's souvenir hat; a black felt tricorn decorated with skull and crossbones. A reminder of how the pirates of his own era were currently viewed; as colorful, semi-comic entertainment figures. An image he himself had contributed to. Sparrow smirked, considering how these tourists might react if they knew they were walking past an actual buccaneer. That is, if any of 'em could believe a pirate would wear sneakers, cutoff jeans, a black Ernest Hemingway tee-shirt, and aviator sunglasses.

The boisterous group reached the far side of the Square, disappearing into the Shell Warehouse. Jack felt a pang of a different sort. Even from a distance, seashells always reminded him of Elizabeth. Though he'd not exchange any treasure for his least memory of that matchless wench, there was no doubt they extracted a regretful price.

Almost despite himself, he found himself recalling an exchange he'd had with Lizzie upon discovering she was teaching seafaring skills, but not piratical ones, to her son Willy:

/ "There's no point grooming him for a dying profession, Jack. The 'golden age' of piracy is in it's final days. We both know that."

"So, our victory at the Battle of the Maelstrom was for naught?"

"Hardly! We won an alternative to mass extinction that day- a chance to step down in times and ways of our own choosing. And to tell our own side of the history, not leave it entirely to those who'd paint us as vile miscreants without redeeming value. Definitely worth the effort."

"Then what future do you envision fer young Willy the Third?"

"He'll have the option of becoming a seafarer if he wishes. I've set aside enough swag to supply him with his own ship. And for any other offspring William and I may have after he comes home. Our children, and those of our fellow pirates, shall be the ones to pass our stories on- tales which may still be told centuries from now. That's certainly worth the price we paid, Captain Sparrow..." /

Twenty-first century Jack sighed. The lass must've had a bit of the prophetess in her, among other things. He still had moments when he almost wished he'd tricked her, and both Williams, into taking the Water. Or at least made a much stronger effort to persuade them.

No profit in brooding over that, either.

So half-believed legends and media entertainments were all that was left of the culture which had shaped Captain Jack Sparrow. Preferable to being forgotten completely, he conceded. Still... For a long moment he shut his eyes, his mind far away from this place, and even further from this time...

Jack perked up when the flutist started to play a Rolling Stones melody. He'd had always been partial to that band. Even to this, the mellowest song in their repertoire. He listened intently to the end. It turned out to be the musician's stopping point; when finished, the young Haitian disconnected the amp and began packing up his equipment. Jack strolled over to hand the lad a much-appreciated twenty dollar bill.

Leaving the square, Jack started south along carnivalesque Duval Street, towards his dinner reservation at Mangoes. He mulled over tomorrow's itinerary: inspect his renovated cruiser, get the air tanks filled, and be off to pay a diving visit to his Black Pearl. That prospect made him smile, though rather wistfully. There just might come a day when he'd decide to join her down there for good.

Though not anytime soon. For now, he had Mangoes' excellent conch fritters to look forward to. And then the Sunset Celebration at the Mallory docks, with it's lively collection of street performers- the bloke who balanced a shopping cart in his teeth was expected to be there. Afterwards, there was a generous stock of rum stowed in his cabin.

As he proceeded down the road, half-shadowed under late-afternoon sun, Jack idly sang the lyrics to the song he'd just heard so artfully played:

_"It is the evening of the day,  
I sit and watch the children play,  
Smiling faces I can see,  
But not for me,  
I sit and watch as tears go by..._

_My riches can't buy everything,  
I want to hear the children sing,  
All I hear is the sound,  
Of rain falling on the ground,  
I sit and watch as tears go by..._

_It is the evening of the day,  
I sit and watch the children play,  
Doing things I used to do,  
They think are new,  
I sit and watch as tears go by..."_

---

FINIS

---

Song lyrics are from _American Pie_ by Don McLean, and _As Tears Go By_ by the Rolling Stones.

BTW: This is the first occasion where I've included myself in a fic. May 23, 1982, is when I made my first visit to Key West, where I bought a slice of key lime pie from the Mallory Square stand, and asked the attendant for the recipe (which I've used ever since.) The Haitian flutist, the Shell Warehouse, Mangoes, and the shopping-cart-balancing guy are all real.


	22. Second Coming

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

First half of the 21st Century, on a privately-owned Caribbean islet

---

Jack padded across the tiled deck towards the pool, nimble fingers dancing over his iPad. Establishing that his investments and the outside world were in reasonably stable conditions. Upon reaching the green-striped lounge chairs, he lowered himself into one, sighing heavily. Stock quotes and news headlines were not the foremost concerns on his mind.

The former pirate donned a pair of Ray Ban shades, reminding himself, again, that he must be patient. He'd known from the start that his not-entirely-willing guest would require an adjustment period- who wouldn't? He'd accept his new situation if Jack gave him enough time. It wasn't like he had any shortage of that...

An unexpected sensation- a scratchy tickle like a cat's tongue- assaulted his left arch. Jack yelped, flexing his leg back to his chest, then leaned forward to identify the cause. The culprit was crouching behind a decorative palmetto- James Norrington, wielding a length of palm frond and a triumphant smirk.

The ex-pirate glowered, though he was actually pleased Norrington had approached of his own volition. Even more encouraging was James' mischievous smirk. Finally, something other than perpetual bewilderment!

"Jus' what are you up to there, Mr. Norrington? Can ye find nothin' better ta do between yer Internet perusals?"

"And what could possibly be more worthwhile than making your life difficult, Sparrow?"

Jack almost squirmed with delight, hearing his favorite appellation spoken by that long-lost voice. Wouldn't do to show it, though. An effusive response might put James off.

"You might consider gettin' some sun instead. 'Tis supposed ta be conducive to improving the disposition. Don't forget the sunscreen," Sparrow added, pointing out the blue-and-orange tube on the round deck table. Feeling far more cheerful, he sank into the canvas cushions, pushing the dark spectacles into place on his nose.

James, deciding a sun bath might indeed do him good, moved to the adjacent lounger. The sunscreen tube felt like a thick seaweed stem in his hand, as he squeezed out dabs of lotion and dutifully applied them to his face and arms. He was willing to perform this ritual, since Sparrow deemed it important, but had no intention of taking off his short-sleeved shirt and breeches. Appearing in small clothes had no appeal for James, least of all such outrageously colored ones as Jack was sporting. Never mind that he called them 'swimming trunks', and contended they were acceptable attire for even the most respectable gentleman to wear alongside a swimming pool.

James eyed said pool suspiciously. Of course he'd seen such facilities before, at estates gardens, but none of such a gaudy turquoise shade. And certainly not exuding an odor like that from an apothecary. Despite Sparrow's explanation, that it was just a chemical to kept the water clean, Norrington preferred to stay dry for now.

He glanced over his shoulder, at Jack's sleek pristine-white dwelling. Odd looking, though indubitably comfortable in it's appointments. It seemed the former pirate was now landed gentry, owning not just the fine house, but this entire little island. Also properties in London and Capri, according to him. It was a claim James might have found incredible, if it weren't so mundane compared with the circumstance of his- James'- being here at all.

'Here' referring to not just the place, but the year.

Norrington made himself lie back in the chair- likewise strange, but comfortable. Gazing up, he consoled himself that at least the bright Caribbean sky was familiar. As was the ocean- he could glimpse a stretch of that when he turned his head to the right. He found it a balm to his overtaxed senses... at least, so long as none of those startlingly fast and noisy longboats happened by. Or any of those much larger, sail-less ships, further out to sea. Jack had informed him that nowadays most vessels were propelled by engines. Though nowhere near as beautiful, motor-driven ships had the advantage of being able to move in any direction, regardless of the wind, and ran no risk of being becalmed.

It was one of an abundance of differences weighing on the former Commodore's mind. He'd become ever more aware of how much had changed from his studies on the Internet- that most amazing of the several amazing devices in Jack's home. A small mounted window, through which James could look at incredibly detailed pictures, or read very legible text, about any subject he choose. His current preferred subjects were the history of the last few centuries, and modern geography and politics- essential (if often baffling) knowledge.

Under Jack's tutelage, James had quickly learned basic Internet navigation, though he had no trace of a notion about how the device worked. Jack's attempt to explain the "very tiny machines" behind the window was just confusing. So Norrington resolved to simply make use of the thing, without considering the mechanism. Now more than ever, James was glad he possessed that kind of focus. When faced with an inexplicable situation, he could ignore questions about the how or why of it, concentrating entirely on the task at hand. He'd done so when the Dauntless was attacked by a swarm of living skeletons. He'd had repeated occasion to do the same, in the days since his very unexpected awakening.

James would certainly never forget that. The first sight to meet his eyes was Captain Sparrow, regarding him from the bedside with barely restrained joy. Jack had appeared older, though not in any conventional way. No furrowing of the skin or graying of the hair, just a subtle, but definite, added weight of experience. Norrington was soon given the explanation for that, and for his own survival, but hadn't been able to credit either of them- it'd been like listening to wild dockside yarns. Full days, and much accumulated evidence, had been required to make him begin to believe in their reality.

It seemed Sparrow, of all people, had located the mythical Fountain of Youth- which was, in fact, no myth- which had extended his lifespan to over three centuries. As if that weren't improbable enough, the ex-pirate had recently encountered some special-powered beings, whom he declined to describe (presumably eldritch- Jack seemed to have a knack for running into those.) These beings had asked Jack to performed some unspecified but sorely needed service for them. In exchange for this, they'd offered to transport one individual from Sparrow's past into his present, with the stipulation that it be somebody whose disappearance would not disrupt the flow of future events, which were now past events... a concept James had taken a while to grasp. But he believed he understood the gist of it: the most opportune person to retrieve was one who'd just died... at least, so far as his contemporaries could tell.

That perception, it seemed, was subject to change. In this, the twenty-first century, a deep chest wound wasn't invariably fatal. Not if the victim received medical care before their brain cells succumbed to lack of oxygen (or so Jack claimed. It was one of numerous items James had stowed in his mental vault of things-to-try-to-comprehend-later.) It could be assumed this limitation was why Sparrow had selected Norrington for retrieval; his violent demise aboard the Dutchman provided the necessary safeguard. As best James could gather, the unidentified beings had extended something analogous to a net, back through time, to catch him right after Jones' crew pushed his body overboard. He'd then been transported three centuries forward, to a facility where his injuries had been successfully treated.

So some days later, weakened but on the mend, Norrington had regained consciousness in Jack's spare bedroom, on this Caribbean islet. That had been two weeks ago. The prevailing sense of strangeness still shrouded his mind like a gradually thinning mist, but James was now sufficiently recovered to feel restless. No wound had ever kept him immobile for long.

Norrington looked to the adjacent lounger, regarding Sparrow curiously. The centuries-old rogue certainly didn't look it. He still had that sinewy physique, smoothly tanned hide, matted dark mane. The latter was somewhat shorter, and without ornaments, as was his closely-trimmed beard. The only other differences James could spot were the less-conspicuous P brand, and the unbroken whiteness of his teeth. Unaccountable healings, lending credibility to Jack's fantastic claims about the Fountain's powers.

James shifted to study Jack's partly-hidden visage. Under those black spectacles, the pirate might be looking back at him with that same expectant gaze he'd been training on James for days. Watching for some sign the refugee navyman was beginning to accept his new situation.

That was a matter Norrington was still wrestling with, though he acknowledged that his predicament, immediately prior to his 'rescue', had been dire. He'd just committed an inarguable act of treason against the British Crown. While his action had earned some approval from Elizabeth, her regard was unlikely- that is, would have been unlikely- to do him any good, since she'd recently turned outlaw. Realistically, James could have expected nothing better than disgrace, imprisonment, and probable execution. That crazed crewman's fatal shaft had been a mercy to him.

And then, out of nowhere, he'd been granted (or been snatched into) another alternative. Being transported to a future era had wiped his slate clean; nobody here knew anything of him. With the single exception of rascally Jack Sparrow. His savior and his jailer.

No, James admitted, that was unjust. It was the circumstance of his displacement which was keeping Norrington captive on this pleasant little island. Which was a consequence of his being stabbed through the heart, which was the responsibility of men other than Sparrow.

In fact, the ex-pirate's hospitality had, so far, been impeccable. He'd given James free run of house and grounds, provided excellent meals, tried to answer nearly every question the recuperating navyman put to him. Clearly, Jack was trying to foment a more cordial relationship than they'd endured in their mutual past, which Norrington did appreciate. Particularly Jack's assurance that he was free to leave whenever he wanted to. "Though I'd strongly advise ye not ta weigh anchor 'til you've some idea how to negotiate the new shoals."

Aye- there was the very formidable rub! James could not help chafing over his lost independence, and the lengthy reeducation he'd obviously require to regain it. Being obliged to live off another's charity, however willingly provided, was anathema to any able-bodied British gentleman, regardless of era. It didn't help that Sparrow kept giving him those yearning-puppydog looks, suggesting (though he'd not said so explicitly) that he very much hoped James would decide to remain here with him.

Admittedly, the former Commodore could understand Jack's position. What must it be like, to far outlive your own time, lose every person who'd ever known of you... and then, miraculously, have someone restored? It was less than astonishing, that the 'someone's feelings about it might be overlooked.

James set his jaw, deciding it was time the two of them talked this out. He reached to give his host a nudge on the shoulder. "Jack?"

Sparrow promptly lowered the dark glasses, regarding his guest attentively. "Yes, Commodore?"

"Call me James. I have no rank now."

Jack smiled, not unkindly. "No offense, but ye'll always be 'Commodore' ta me."

/ As you'll always be 'pirate' to me, / Norrington realized.

"So what's on yer mind, James?"

Norrington simply blurted out the most searing impression he'd had from the Internet. "The world's changed a lot since our time."

Jack nodded solemnly. "It has. 'Takes a whole 'nother set of skills to navigate it."

"Then how can I hope to ever make a home here?"

Jack sat up straight, whipping his sunglasses aside with a flourish. "By learning those new skills. I've every confidence in you, Norrington- you jus' need ta regain yer bearings an' you'll manage fine. Of course I'll help. I can arrange any sort of training you request. 'Seems only fair, seein' how I'm responsible fer yer bein' here."

"That's true enough." Norrington's resentment perked, though only briefly.

"Once you get acclimated to it, you'll find theer's advantages ta this century. Medicine's a lot better, fer one. Almost nobody dies of consumption anymore! An' travelin' takes a lot less time. What spot on the globe would you most like ta visit?"

James considered a moment. "I suppose England."

"Merry Olde is still there. Much of it altered, but much still the same." Jack's head tilted in a playful manner, making the years fall away. "I can call a travel agent, an' a 'gentleman' I know ta manufacture a passport for you. We could be theer in days!"

James wasted only a moment, wondering how they could manage to cross the Atlantic that quickly. It probably had to do with those machine-birds which made the white streaks in the sky.

"'We'?"

"'We', Commodore. I'd strongly advise you not ta make yer first outside venture on yer onesies, due to those aforementioned navigational hazards. But with a proper guide, it could be fun! We can take a tour of the Continent, too- you really must see Paris!"

James was regarded his host piercingly. "I have a theory about what you're up to, Mr. Sparrow."

"Really!" Jack folded his arms around his knees, as though settling in to hear a yarn. "Let's have it, then."

"I believe you're maneuvering for us to spend time together, with the expectation we'll become friends."

"Quite right! Add that to me list of egregious crimes." Jack grinned an endearingly boyish grin.

"Furthermore, I think you're hoping I'll eventually grow so fond of you, I'll want to take the same rejuvenating treatments you are. So we can both be immortals, adventuring together through the ages."

Jack seemed surprised by his frosty tone. "Is that really so objectionable? Theer's much ta see an' do in this world, an' I'm not the worst accompaniment you could have. 'Specially now that I've matured a bit."

/ The key words are 'a bit,' / James thought, but restrained his tongue. "It's not that the prospects you have planned for us are without appeal, Sparrow. But I rather dislike being manipulated. I was never consulted about whether I wanted to be taken out of my own age- yes, I'm aware you had no opportunity to ask me," he added, forestalling the pirate's rather reasonable protest. "Still, you must have anticipated that, having brought me into a completely unfamiliar situation, you'd have me at a real disadvantage."

Jack looked wounded. "It weren't like that at all, James. I jus' thought you might prefer bein' alive now, ta bein' dead then."

Norrington's mouth thinned. The assumption wasn't exactly far-fetched.

Recognizing an opportune moment, Sparrow somberly raised one palm. "James, I swear, on pain of death, I never planned ta force you to do, or not do, anythin'. It were always my intent ta allow you yer own choices. I'd only hoped that those choices might include me." Though he'd tried to keep his voice even, a poignant note crept into those last words.

Norrington dropped his gaze, feeling somewhat ashamed. The lonely pirate hadn't truly wronged him- he'd preserved his life, and extended an offer of friendship. Neither gesture deserved to be summarily rejected.

"My apologies, Captain Sparrow. What you've proposed is not unreasonable. We can certainly consider taking a voyage together. But do allow me some time to think about it."

"Certainly, Commodore." The playful spark returned to Sparrow's eye. "But seriously, you should visit Paris. There's a grand new tower there that's come ta symbolize all France."

"I assume you refer to the Eiffel Tower. I saw a picture of it online... I can't say I found it all that impressive. It's appearance suggests someone erected the supports and neglected to install the brickwork."

"It looks much more better in real life! Fine views to be had from it's observation decks, too. An' the Parisian restaurants, an' the cabarets, James! You might never want to leave!"

Norrington privately conceded, such enthusiasm could be an asset in a travel companion. It said something about Sparrow that, at his age, he was still eager to go off and do things. That quality must simply be intrinsic to the man. Perhaps he, James, could benefit from his example.

"As I'm currently unemployed- a situation unlikely to change soon- how shall I go about affording this proposed excursion?"

Jack performed a well-remembered fluttering of fingers. "I can provide the fundage. You may regard as a loan, if you prefer, ta be repaid with service aboard my rigged ship. She's in Miami jus' now, gettin' maintenance."

"The _Black Pearl_?"

A brief cloud passed over Jack's sunny visage. "Mate, you know the _Pearl's_ too old ta still be above water."

"Sorry."

"I refer to the _Lady Buccaneer_. A right bonnie lass! Two-masted brig, 178 ton displacement, 34 meter sparred length. She has an engine fer use in becalmings, but in wind, she handles sweetly as any ship you or I ever steered. I should make yer introductions as soon as possible." Sparrow's eye twinkled like a matchmaker's.

"Then, this century still has some use for wind-driven ships?"

"Aye! My _Lady_ puts in appearances at festive events- port openings, centennial celebrations. And I take her on educational cruises. Theer's folks willin' ta pay considerable money ta spend a few days on an authentic wooden vessel. As you're well-qualified ta answer any of theer questions pertaining to the Age of Sail, I'd be glad ta have you along. 'Twill only be part-time work, but perhaps 'twill do 'til you're ready for something more substantial." Jack added with a smirk, "You can even wear the brocade an' wig, should that be yer Commodorial preference. We call that 'historical reenactment'."

James ran a hand over the top of head. He couldn't deny the appeal of being at sea again. "I shall certainly take this offer under consideration, Captain."

Jack nodded confidently. "Let me know when you decide. I figured you'd rather earn yer way- never took ya for the sort of bloke willin' ta live off anyone's suffrage." Sparrow reached to clasp his former adversary's wrist. "You possess the necessary courage an' fortitude to make your way through any century, Mr. Norrington. Trust me."

James eyed the hand on his wrist, decided to leave it. "Is that why you selected me for... resurrection?"

"'Twas an important factor. Didn't want ta bring anyone here who'd never adapt." For a moment, Jack's expression became wistful. Perhaps reviewing the faces and names of people who'd been dearer to him than Commodore Norrington, but who lacked that much-admired resilience.

James found himself thinking more highly of the ex-pirate. For the first time, he felt genuinely grateful for what Jack had done.

/ His motives might have been better than I've given him credit for. There's many who'd sell their souls for what Sparrow's given me; a second chance to build the kind of life I want. There's definite advantages to clean slates. /

The navyman again considered his uncertain future, but with new optimism, viewing it as a challenge to be met. And hadn't he always thrived on challenges?

He shifted to face Sparrow squarely. "Jack... it's far too early for me to decide whether I'll want to make use of this Fountain. Nor how close, or consistently, I'll stick by you. You do realize, it's possible I'll eventually want to strike out on my own? Or might meet someone whose company I find preferable to yours?"

Jack tried to shrug, though his expression was almost pleading. "I could still come to visit you now an' then, aye?"

"That is exactly the issue I mean to address. As it is by your doing that I still have any power of choice, I acknowledge a certain debt." Norrington turned his hand beneath Jack's, firmly grasping his pulse point. "I can, and do, promise you this much: I shall never abandon you entirely."

Hope rose like the sun in Sparrow's face. "So, this is...?"

"A declaration of affinity. An accord, if you prefer. You know I'm good for it." James employed the same tone he'd use to bestow a field commission on a worthy young officer.

Sparrow looked happy as James had ever seen him. His slender hand turned to squeeze James' own pulse point.

"I do indeed, Commodore! What say you, we have a drink on it?"

Before James could respond, Jack was on his feet, moving towards the white icebox beside the pool shed. He removed a golden bottle of rum, and one tall cylindrical glass. Returning to his seat, he half-filled the glass and handed to James.

"'Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'" The containers clinked together, then both were tilted back.

James fingered the smooth cylinder, wondering just what he may have started here. Since his first encounter with one Captain Sparrow, his life had taken so many unexpected twists that he hardly dared guess where it might go next.

At the very least, it seemed likely to remain interesting.

He looked quizzically to Sparrow. "And who is 'Louie'? Is that some currently fashionable toast?"

"More of a pop-culture reference." Jack's eyes danced, bright as the faceted rum bottle twirling in his hand. "Remind me sometime soon, ta introduce you to DVDs."

---

FINIS

---


	23. Mementos

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

For the first morning since coming here, Norrington got to the kitchen ahead of Jack. Probably because this was the first day James felt absolutely no reluctance about getting up.

He tightened the sash of his blue robe as he entered, liking the feel of the fabric. So soft and thick he'd initially taken it for fur, though close inspection revealed it had a weave. Unfamiliar, but easy to get used to, as was so much of this household.

Norrington located a mug and tea bag, and set about preparing a beverage. The small black oven, which so efficiently heated cups of water, was the first apparatus he'd learned to use here. Several minutes of experimenting was all he'd needed to establish which of the labeled panels he must depress to get the temperature he wanted. And the tea of this era- brewed in tiny paper bags rather than whole leaves- had a clean flavor he'd rapidly come to prefer.

There was, he considered, absolutely no reason for him to resist that preference. This century was now his own.

The microwave emitted it's rather pleasant whirring noise, as James pondered. Just what had happened to make him feel so much better about his circumstances? That conversation he'd had with Jack yesterday- culminating with a declaration of allegiance- seemed to mark the start of the upturn. Apparently, it helped to know he had at least one constant element in his life... even if that 'element' could be damned annoying. He now felt confident his process of assimilation was truly underway.

The little oven chirped like a bird, signaling he could remove his teacup. Norrington was taking his first sip of the warm brew when Sparrow came in. The ex-pirate wore a shorter black robe of that same fur-like fabric, and was yawning widely, but broke it off to grin at Norrington. "Mornin', James!"

"Good morning to you, Jack."

Sparrow promptly got to work preparing breakfast; a task Norrington was still obliged to leave to his host. Though quite sure he could eventually master the workings of the larger oven, with it's several sets of numbered panels, James felt need to do more observing first. In the meanwhile, Norrington could hardly complain about Jack's culinary output.

The former Commodore inhaled appreciatively as Jack set a steamy plate of sausages and eggs before him. The proud cook flopped into a chair at the opposite side of the table, digging into his own repast.

"This fare is quite commendable. Might I ask, Sparrow, when you learned how to cook?"

Jack tilted his head, almost girlishly. "Picked it up here an' theer. Anyone who spends much time on theer own hasta learn the basics. How do you like the bangers? More spice content 'en yer accustomed to, eh?"

James, whose mouth was presently full of the aforementioned sausages, nodded assent. Few seagoing men could afford to be exacting about the flavor of their food, but this difference was obvious.

"'Tis no great indulgence now. Spices are so affordable most folks take 'em fer granted."

Norrington spent a philosophical moment wondering if that was an improvement... whether ignored abundance was better than appreciated paucity. But he decided to postpone that intellectual exercise in favor of more practical matters.

"I've been giving due consideration to your offer of employment. How soon might I have a look at your _Lady Buccaneer_?"

Jack beamed behind his forkful of scrambled eggs. "We can be in Miami by tomorrow. If yer inclined towards period dress, I know a historical costumer theer who can make whatever rank o' uniform you'd prefer. Jus' let me know, an' I'll schedule an appointment fer a fitting."

"You seem to have a multitude of useful acquaintances. Do you also know a competent wigmaker?"

Jack started, as though he'd been stuck with a pin. "I jus' had a recollection! James, as soon as you're completed consumption of yer repast, I've something to show you in the study."

Norrington finished his meal with all due speed, but insisted he and Sparrow should also change into daytime attire. Even if it was into those short breeches and shirts which reminded James of a tar's garments. According to Sparrow, nowadays people of all classes wore such clothes in warm climates. "'Tis just a matter of practicality, James. Once folks get used ta dressin' fer the temperature, most of 'em don't care ta reverse course."

So it was nearly half an hour before the two men entered the study. Like many a room in Jack's house, this one was far too cluttered for Norrington's taste- Sparrow had acquired many souvenirs though his extensive travels and seemed compelled to display them all. James would have given that elegant carved ebony mask a wall to itself, not made it share the space with an Aborigine bark cloth painting, two tasseled jade pendants, a gilded Noh opera headdress, matched batik banners, a narwhal tusk and a cinnabar plate.

Jack led the way to the opposite wall, which sported only a single large oil painting. James found this work rather baffling. It appeared to be a bright-centered seascape with masted ships in the distance, but the outlines were very blurred, as if the artist had carelessly left his canvas out in the rain. Still, the overall effect was rather pleasing, perhaps because the graduated colors reproduced the dramatic appearance of storm clouds.

James leaned close to read the signature, receiving a minor shock.

"William Turner'? The blacksmith became a painter?"

"Not the one you knew. This is one of his an' Lizzie's grandwhelps, who relocated to England an' became an artist of renown. You can perceive his grandmum's rebel influence in this, eh? Nobody before Will Turner the 4th had deliberately done such distortions an' made the public love it- I had to exchange a fair stack of shine fer this! But 'tis somethin' else I had in mind ta show you."

Jack gripped the frame's left edge and swung the painting like a gate, revealing a square metal door behind it. James recognized it as a wall safe, though it lacked dials and sported yet another set of numbered panels. Sparrow commenced pushing these, with no apparent concern about having an audience.

"I suppose this is where pirates stow their treasure nowadays."

Jack shook his head. "My valuable valuables reside inside a mid-sized vault in a Switzerland bank. This 'ere compartment is intended to afford protection from hurricane damage. Within, I keep those of my mementos which can't be replaced. Would you be interested in seein' 'em?"

Those must be special, to stand out amidst such abundant swag. "Yes, I would."

The last number was entered, and the heavy door unlatched with a metallic clank. Jack tugged it open, revealing a sizable niche containing three various-sized boxes. The ex-pirate lifted out the largest one- an open brown crate- and set it on an adjacent table.

James peered inside curiously. The crate contained yet more jumbled objects; a plaited horse bridal, a stack of playbill sheets (one with a bright-colored picture of a perching bird), the handle of a broken sword, a folded woolen shawl. Also a number of hats- one of wide-brimmed tan canvas, another adorned with red plumes, another military-blue with gold trim. James hoped the latter wasn't a battle trophy.

"Most of what's in theer I acquired since we parted company, so ye'll not be recognizin' much of it," Jack commented as he took out the smallest box; a green enameled jewelry case. He opened this to reveal white-velvet lined slots, each containing a seemingly nondescript item. Pebbles and wood scraps, a pink scallop shell, a curved predator's tooth, a squarish copper coin, a vial full of muddy salt. "Bits from places that mean somethin' ta me," Sparrow confirmed.

Norrington pointed to a charred splinter. "Is that from the Pearl?"

"Aye. A remnant from the first time I lost her."

"And this?" James indicated a spoon, decorated with a white enamel star, in it's own long slot.

"From a passenger ship I was on, that sank." Regret tinged Sparrow's voice. "I'll tell you about it some other time."

Last out of the safe was a middle-sized silver box, with the image of a double-masted barque etched into it's lid. The interior was lined with padded blue silk, cushioning several carefully spaced objects. Jack used both hands to lift out the first; fist-sized and fuzzy gray. Norrington grimaced when he realized what it was.

"Is that an actual...?"

"Yes, it is. An' be respectful when referring to her! No woman's ever meant more ta me," his host intoned sternly.

James guarded his expression, as Jack reverently placed the shrunken head beside the jewel case. Obviously, there was a story connected with it... just as obviously, one to be told later.

The next object was more mundane; a small leather flask, besmirched with a large brownish stain. Norrington's eyes widened with recognition. "That belonged to Joshamee Gibbs."

"Aye. As loyal a bloke as ever sailed under pirate colors."

An earlier question occurred to James. "If you don't mind my asking, Jack, I observed that Mr. Gibbs appeared to be your best friend among the Pearl's crew. Why did you not choose to bring him here, rather than me?"

Sparrow's gaze was fixed on the flask, fingers lightly tracing the stain. "He were the first one that came to mind, when I got the offer. But there was an insurmountable obstacle. Joshamee was killed by a cannon shot. Even this century's medicine can do naught fer a man who's been scattered over half a quarterdeck."

James averted his eyes, recalling his amiable old shipmate. An engaging yarn spinner, an outspoken encyclopedia of sailors' superstitions. Sometimes gruff, always likable. Norrington was glad he hadn't witnessed his ending.

"I'm truly sorry, Jack."

"As am I. Though it might be just ez well. He were very much a man of his time- he'd not be comfortable with this." Jack twirled a hand, to indicate both his technology-encrusted house and the far more complicated world beyond. "Can you even imagine Gibbs operating a computer keyboard?"

Norrington's mouth quirked. "He'd likely decide, any key with an unfamiliar symbol was better left unpushed."

"'Oh no, Cap'in! 'Tis terrible bad luck ta use asterisks- they'll scupper the hard drive!'" Both men grinned at this affectionate imitation. "In all probability, he's happier where the Dutchman's delivered him. 'Might even've joined their crew. Not to worry, Commodore- working conditions have greatly improved since you were there."

Moving on, Jack set down the flask and took out a third item. A dark wooden bird. "This is the only part I took off my Pearl, jus' before I sent her down." As James' incredulous look, Sparrow added, "She were fallin' apart from age, mate. It were time ta let her rest in the ocean's arms."

James gently touched the furrowed carving, tracing one lifted wing. "I can only imagine how wrenching that must have been for you."

"'Twere a hard duty, aye. But better it were done by my hand, than... well, anybody's."

The next item out of the box was a length of faded reddish fabric. Jack smiled as he held it against his forehead. "I imagine ye'll remember this."

"I could hardly forget it. Or that." James indicated one of the last objects; an octagonal box with a lapis half-dome. "The storied compass that doesn't point north."

Jack cradled the object in his palm, eyeing it thoughtfully. "I only use it a few times a year now, fer salvages an' such. Doesn't work as readily as it once did. I don't know whether that's because it's changed... or because the world has."

There was one item left in the silver box; a purple drawstring bag. Jack untied it, and tipped to pour the contents onto the padded silk. James expected a cascade of precious gems, so was initially puzzled when they turned out to be mostly trade beads. Then a long sliver of bone fell out, and he knew their significance.

"You kept your hair ornaments."

"Surely I did, ol' Commodore. 'Twould take a lot to induce me to part with the memories they carry. I once had ta dig up a corpse to retrieve 'em... ah, but don't let that put you off. I gave 'em a proper cleaning afterwards."

James fingered a fringed silver pendant. "Do you ever wear these anymore?"

"Once in a while. Fer certain anniversaries, or costumed occasions. Never keep 'em on for more 'en a day or two. Nor the braided beard. Those were hallmarks of the Captain Jack Sparrow who sailed during the Golden Age of Piracy, which is long gone."

Norrington diplomatically held his tongue. Sparrow started returning the trinkets in the bag, giving them individual scrutiny he did so. Reviewing each of their stories, many of which he'd never share, James suspected.

While Jack repacked the silver box, the former navyman let his gaze drift back to the open jewelry case. He suddenly noticed that one of the pebbles had a most distinctive shape: two pyramids joined at the base. Very like a specimen once shown to Norrington by a wealthy merchant passenger.

Pointing to the intriguing stone, he asked, "Isn't that an uncut diamond?"

"Well spotted, Commodore." Sparrow gravely picked it up, turning it in his fingers. "This is a souvenir of my first, an' so far only, marriage."

James' eyebrows leapt. Here was a tale he did want to hear now. "You had a wife?"

"Fer all of four months." The former pirate was uncharacteristically somber. "To tell the short version: there were an occasion when, though convoluted an' entirely unforeseen circumstances, I found meself stranded in a sparcely-forested region of southeast Africa. And there I fell amongst a small tribe- more out of necessity than choice, for these folks weren't the most hospitable to strangers. 'Twas a rather tense situation, until it was revealed they had a problem they thought I could assist with.

"'Seemed their current Headmen had a daughter who'd jus' come of age. Fer reasons I were never entirely clear on, it would've brought great disgrace on her family if this particular girl were ta die unmarried. Problem was, she were a right sickly chit. Been born with a bad heart, or some such condition- obviously lacking fitness to bear a child. An' there was a strong local stigma on marryin' a wench who couldn't produce offspring, so none of the village lads were willin' ta have her. But as I were an outsider, with no plans ta remain in that region fer long, her Da thought I might be persuaded ta do the honors. Knowin' white men value such things, he offered me three o' these sparklies ta become his son-in-law. Which, after some consideration, I deemed a fair exchange... An' why are you favoring me with such a glower, Mr. Norrington?"

"Exactly how old was this girl, Sparrow?"

"Old enough ta have her monthly bleeds, which, by the standard of her tribe, made her of sufficient age ta be wed. If you're of a differing view, take it up with them, not me. I did right by that lass!" Jack insisted. "I kept her unbruised through that raucous pre-marriage ritual, which bore no slight resemblance ta runnin' a gauntlet. An' consummated our union in a gentlemanly fashion as'd do even you proud, with the whole village leapin' and yellin' around our 'honeymoon hut'. I assume that was their way of testin' my commitment. Stuck by her fer the rest o' her life, I did. Which weren't long."

His sad gaze dropped to the glinting stone. "Got a lot fonder of her than I'd expected to, through those months. She weren't the brightest sort, nor the most comely, but such a sweet-natured chit. I became a fair hand at robbin' bee's nests, just ta supply her with honeycombs. She was ever so grateful whenever I brought her one- always broke off a bit to share with me. I haven't been able ta taste or smell honey since, without bein' reminded of her." His lips curved amorously, for just a second. "Then came the morning when she passed away, real sudden. I remained one day more- jus' long enough ta attend the funeral rituals. Next daybreak I packed up, lit out fer the nearest coast, an' never returned. I have established that village doesn't exist any more. Bein' such a small tribe, it were jus' a matter of time before it was assimilated."

James' glare had softened. "And the diamonds?"

"Sold two of 'em fer a fine price. But this one I don't intend ta part with, nor have cut. It represents undeveloped potential, ya see. That poor lass deserved a much better hand 'en she were dealt."

The two men were silent for a minute. Sparrow replaced the gem in the slotted case, closed it and returned it to the vault. He cheered up as he looked to the large box.

"But, no advantage ta dwellin' on that. I've other items with more positive associations. Such as this one- savvy?"

Jack reached deep within, withdrawing a worn leather tricorn. He ducked his head to don the antique headgear, straightening with a merry rogue's grin. Norrington started- it was as if the intervening centuries had vanished. The scoundrelly pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow, was standing before him once again.

Jack was clearly aware of the effect. "Brings back the memories, eh, Commodore?"

"Quite so. You are evoking a quite strong desire to..."

"Prepare a noose?"

"To put out to sea." Norrington came to a decision. "I believe I shall accept your offer of employment as a 'reenactor' aboard your ship. Please feel free to schedule an appointment for me with your Miami seamstress, at her earliest convenience."

It was Jack's turn to start. "Bugger! I'd almost forgot that particular artifact fer which I'd opened the vault ta begin with!"

Sparrow swiftly delved into the furthest depths of the brown crate, yet it was with some hesitation that he drew forth the wanted item. The most familiar one yet.

Norrington's eyes flew wide open. He snatching the pale object, turning it upside down to check the manufacturer's mark. Confirming that this was, indeed, the very same naval wig he had 'died' in.

"Sparrow... did you have the audacity take this off me when I was first brought here?"

Jack attempted a nonchalant shrug. "That was jus' ta keep it safe- takin' it inta protective custody, as it were. Weren't immediately clear, ya know, whether you were going ta survive or not, an' if you hadn't, I'd have retained it as a treasured memento. But since, in point of fact, you have made an encouragingly complete recovery, I've voluntarily restored said memento, intact an' unsullied, to your affectionate keepin'. So what's ta resent?"

"It's no wonder so much of your house resembles a magpie nest- you have the very same mentality! Whatever can be grabbed up, will be!" James tugged the returned property onto place on his scalp, just to keep it out of Jack's reach. It occurred to him that, between his glaring from beneath the wig, and Jack gesticulating under the tricorn, this tableau probably resembled their original meeting on the Port Royal dock.

Jack opted to behave as though his infraction was already in the distant past. Tapping a finger against his chin, he announced, "I'm having a thought, Commodore. Supposin' I supply you with another rigged vessel, with which you could attempt ta chase me down on the _Lady Buccaneer_? That could be an especially popular participation event, eh?"

Norrington drew himself erect, answering in his most authoritative Naval voice. "I just may take you up on that, pirate. But I'll be giving that supplied ship a very thorough inspection!"

"Fair deal. So long as you don't take offense if more guests elect ta be buccaneers aboard my vessel than naval toffs on yours."

"I would expect as much. I'm well aware, from my Internet studies, that the public currently holds a most unrealistic and romanticized view of pirates."

Jack's hands fluttered. "'Tis much more fun than the reality, wouldn't you say?"

Commodore Norrington made no answer. But he did crack a very slight smile.

Pressing his advantage, Jack continued. "An' speakin' of fun, I were plannin' on taking a swim this morn. Care to join me?" Seeing James' hesitation, Sparrow added, "I mean in the ocean, not that chlorinated pond you so mistrust. The sea's mostly the same, at least off my beach. Jus' slip yer head below surface an' it may as well still be the 1700s."

James finally relaxed, nodding agreeably. "I do enjoy ocean bathing."

"Somethin' else you should know: theer's new devices available called 'scuba tanks' that let you carry an air supply underwater, so you can stay down fer half-hour or more. I've been makin' use of those fer decades- never get tired of it. Ye'll need trainin', but I'll be glad to help with that. Theer's no end of wonders ta be seen under the sea, James!"

Norrington was definitely intrigued. "I might very well want to try that."

Jack clapped James' shoulder, grinning like a proud parent. "I had a feeling you would."  
---

FINIS

---

I have taken some license in regards to the biography of painter J. M. W. Turner, aka William Turner (1775 - 1851), whom history records as a lifelong resident of England.

My explanation is, Liz & Will's grandson wished to conceal his West Indian origins, believing British high society would be more likely to give his paintings a view if they were believed to be the work of a native son. Jack, being well-practiced at identity change, fabricated a background for young Will which has held up to this day.

Sparrow did not anticipate how successful an artist the whelp would become, so, years later, was obliged to pay 'a fair stack of shine' to acquire one of his artworks.


	24. Let The Games Begin

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

The familiar weight of his wig and brocade-edged coat, though somewhat sweat-inducing, was sheer balm to James Norrington. As were the sensations of being on a moving ship, with a brisk wind bellying the canvas and wheel spokes tugging his grip.

This was Norrington's first trip aboard the _Lady Buccaneer,_ manning that fine brig's helm for a 'Lubber Cruise'- an outing for vacationers seeking just a taste of life aboard a tall ship. The Lady had disembarked that morning, would spend one night on the open sea, and return to port the following day. Through that interval, any interested guests could get hands-on experience working the rigging, or learn the old methods of navigation, or simply enjoy the sights and sounds of wind-powered travel.

Norrington glanced down to the ship's waist. Captain Sparrow was presently there, explaining the use of a sextant to a cluster of passengers. He wore a flamboyant pirate costume- not identical to his regalia of old, but the striped sash, bucket boots, flapping head cloth and dark tricorn were familiar enough. When James had first come aboard, sporting his own new uniform, he'd remarked on the blatant incongruity of a British naval officer and a buccaneer sharing authority aboard the same vessel. Jack contended this was not unacceptable for an educational cruise, since both Navymen and pirates had used ships like this. "Very much like this!" he'd smirked, confirming James' suspicion that Sparrow had deliberately constructed the _Lady Buccaneer_ to resemble the _H.M.S. Interceptor_. Norrington was unsure whether that was an insolent gesture or a tribute.

To add to the diversity, the Lady's several other reenactors were dressed in the manner of a merchant ship's crew. There were a few incongruities. Those durable 'blue jean' breeches hadn't been available in the 1700's, though James conceded, if they had been, the tars probably would've worn them. And women crewmembers had certainly been a great rarity, but Jack claimed he'd had to hire them to comply with certain labor laws (if so, James doubted Sparrow had ever strongly contested those laws.)

Most striking to Norrington was that, roughhewn though they appeared, nobody in this ship's youthful crew had an impoverished background. At least one, he knew, came from a wealthy family. They'd all applied for the seemingly-menial positions here out of love for 'old time' sailing... for the exhilaration of harnessing the wind with canvas, rope and skill. It was gratifying to know that, even in the 21st century, that singular thrill was not entirely forgotten.

There were presently nine passengers aboard, not all of them easily distinguishable from the crew. Jack was correct: it was a lot harder to discern anyone's social class from their manner of dress. In fact, the class system itself had fallen into disrepute; many now considered it unreliable and unfair to assume a person's worth from their ancestry. Having observed for himself what a fallacy that could be, James felt no real qualms about the change.

He might take longer accepting the more sybaritic functions of ships, assuming that the _Lady Buccaneer_ was typical. Much of what would have been the cargo hold was filled with water tanks, providing the passengers with fresh water for showers (daily washing, once an indulgence, was now considered a basic necessity- even Sparrow had acquired the habit.) And just about everyone aboard had a cabin, for few guests wanted to try sleeping in the historically accurate 'demonstration' hammocks. As Jack had said, "Authentic above-deck conditions are popular... below decks, not so much."

Glancing to the bow, Norrington noticed one of the women passengers there was casually peeling off her jacket, revealing a close-fitting shirt too short to cover her midriff. James reflexively averted his eyes, face twitching irritably as he recalled that oh-so-humorous prank Jack had pulled on him yesterday. The two of them had been making their way along the shop-strewn docks, when Sparrow had deliberately, and without warning, steered James right up to a cluster of teenage girls wearing virtually nothing. Norrington's response had afforded the pirate considerable amusement.

Shortly afterwards, Jack explained that the scarcely-clad females were not strumpets, just ordinary chits on holiday. Such states of undress were now standard for seaside vacationers. The good Commodore was bound to see many more such spectacles, and would get used to it after about the hundredth time. James had retorted, he'd no doubt Sparrow had become accustomed to it the first time.

But he gave Jack credit for making him a peace offering- guiding James into one of the stores and treating him to some delightful little candies called M&Ms. They looked just like brightly painted buttons, but upon being chewed, proved to be dabs of very good eating-chocolate inside pleasingly crunchy sugar coatings. Noting how James enjoyed them, Sparrow had purchased a fair quantity of the candies. There was a bag in Norrington's pocket even now.

James gave the bare-waisted girl another glimpse, admitting he really shouldn't have been so startled by Jack's little joke. He'd been previously informed that most everyone dressed for comfort these days, and 'everyone' certainly included the fairer sex. Of all ages, James was reminded, as he noticed two blonde matrons carefully ascending to the quarterdeck. Susan and Grace, if he recalled right- vacationing cousins from Dayton, Ohio. Their clothing was more concealing than what he'd seen (or hadn't) yesterday, but still displayed the entire length of their arms and nearly as much of their legs.

Being unfailingly polite to the passengers was one duty James had no difficulty remembering. "Good afternoon, ladies."

Susan, the shorter one, answered cheerfully. "Good afternoon, Captain! I hope you don't mind us coming up here?"

"I do not mind at all. Though I should mention I am actually a Commodore." He braced himself to once again recite the entire roster of Naval rankings. But these visitors had different interests.

"Is it possible we'll see any whales on this trip, Commodore?" Grace asked.

"Possible, but unlikely, Madame. Whales are not abundant in the Caribbean. We may spot some other sea creatures, such as dolphins or sea turtles. I can not predict when, since they move according to their..."

"Isn't it amazing, how those kids can climb that mast the way it's pitching! Just look at that girl, Grace- doesn't she look just like Nadia?" Norrington followed Susan's finger, pointed at crewmember Nancy Krol. The petite brunette was scaling the rigging with her usual sure-footedness.

"You're right! Commodore, does that girl happen to come from Romania? She looks like she could be related to Nadia Comaneci!"

Norrington was somewhat confused. "Miss Krol is a native of Fort Lauderdale. I am completely unfamiliar with 'Nadia Comaneci.'"

"You must have heard of her! The Olympic gymnast, from Romania!" Grace insisted.

"I'm afraid I have not. But Madame, no woman could be an Olympic gymnast, for only men competed in those games. They were intended to showcase the warrior virtues."

To his dismay, both guests seemed greatly affronted by this statement. "What are you...!?"

"He's referrin' to the original Olympics, ladies!" It was the voice of Jack Sparrow, coming up the stairs to provide a most welcome interruption. "Remember that Mr. Norrington here is representin' an eighteenth-century Naval officer, who'd not have heard of the modern games. Jus' the ones played in Ancient Greece, which were, indeed, males-only events."

"Oh, of course!" "Were they really!" The women immediately regained their good humor.

Norrington smiled apologetically, turning the wheel a few degrees. This really was one of Sparrow's better ideas, reintroducing James to society in the guise of an historical reenactor. Even the most glaring display of ignorance could be attributed to role-playing.

The matrons promptly shifted their attention to Captain Sparrow (as females so frequently did), asking him about the probability of wildlife sightings. In response, Sparrow turned and pointed to a spot fifty meters off the port side, where, seconds later, a trio of gray dolphin fins broke the surface. The ladies squealed with delight, taking out cameras and rushing back down to the deck, as the creatures swam towards the ship's bow.

Norrington regarded the former pirate with a combination of gratitude and annoyance. "I would really like to know how you do that."

"'Tis my years of experience, Commodore," Jack replied, flicking back his shoulder-length dreadlocks.

The taller man shook his head. Reminders that this person was three hundred years old still struck sparks of disbelief. He supposed that response would diminish over time.

Following shipboard etiquette, Jack moved a bit aft, allowing his helmsman an unobstructed forward view. "So, what do you think of my _Lady_?"

James let his gaze roam over the vessel's full length- white canvas, sturdy rigging, varnished wood and gleaming brass. "She's a very fine ship, Captain Sparrow."

"That she is." Jack gave the steering station an affectionate pat. "An' I can tell she has a similar opinion of you."

"So, if you'll have me, I'll be glad to join your crew full time. Just show me the articles."

"They're now called 401 K forms, which I'll be glad fer you ta sign. It can't be denied, yer stuffy Naval-toff mannerisms have been makin' a good impression on the guests." Sparrow jerked his head towards the statuesque redhead leaning against the starboard rail. "That one wench asked me whether or not theer's a Mrs. Commodore."

"Oh? And what did you tell her?"

"That she'll have to make that inquiry of you, and 'twould be appropriate to wait 'til we're back in port. You may respond if you wish to, James. The non-fraternizing rule only applies fer the duration of the cruise."

A most inauthentic rule that was, James thought, though he understood the reason for it. Sparrow was a licensed member of an educational-excursions association, which didn't want to be accused of running floating brothels.

James regarded the flame-haired woman for a minute, before shaking his head. "You witnessed my awkward moment with Grace and Susan. I should probably not try to pursue any kind of courtship until I'm better assimilated." There was a pause, as James recalled something. "And did I understand you correctly? The Olympic Games have been revived?"

Jack grinned broadly. "They have indeed! Officially reinstated in 1896, largely through the efforts of one Baron Pierre de Coubertin. French chap. He hoped the resurgence of such athletic contests would counteract some of the softening effects civilization had inflicted on modern men. A view not totally lackin' in basis."

Norrington couldn't disagree with that. He'd observed that the comforts and conveniences of this age seemed to be accompanied by a corresponding reduction of fortitude and endurance.

"With a few war-induced exceptions, the modern games've been played every four years since then, each time in a different city an' nation. There's considerable vying fer the privilege- not always a seemly spectacle. An' the way corporations scramble ta make money off 'em would make many a pirate blush. But the games themselves can be grand viewing! I've attended several. Mind you, they're not exact replicas o' the originals- theer's been a multitude of events added that the Greeks'd find totally perplexing. There's even a separate Winter Olympics, fer all manner of cold-climate sports."

"And I take it women are now allowed to participate."

"The lasses were admitted at the second games in 1900. Not competin' against the men; they have theer own divisions. But they perform most of the same athletics, an' provide equally fine shows. Sometimes finer ones." Jack gave his mustache a suggestive curl.

Norrington recalled some Greek vases he'd seen, decorated with images of those ancient contests, and tried to imagine them with female figures. Small wonder Sparrow approved.

"Do these modern athletes, ah, wear clothes?"

"Aye. Fer better or worse, nobody thought it necessary ta copy that particular element of the originals. Nor the livestock sacrifices to Zeus. If ye'd like ta research more about 'em, that is one o' the purposes fer which I keep a laptop aboard."

James was definitely intrigued. He gave the wheel a spin as the wind shifted, teasing a few hairs from his wig.

"Thank you, Jack- I believe I shall."

-  
As evening fell, the anchor was lowered and a topside dinner served (the quality of the food also took some meanders from authentic shipboard fare.) After an evening of stargazing and shanty singing around the electric 'campfire'- lyrics sanitized to accommodate polite society- the _Lady Buccaneer's_ crew settled the passengers into their cabins and put the darkened ship to rights.

James had the unCommodorial, if unobjectionable, duty of tidying up. In the Wardrobe Room he carefully hung up his Naval uniform, put on jeans and tee shirt, and reported topside. He policed every inch of the deck, being especially careful to clear the scuppers. Then he descended to the Great Cabin- aka the 'Rec Room'- where he removed the trash and stowed away all cards and game pieces.

Chores completed, James fetched the laptop from a storage drawer, settled into padded chair and punched up the search engine. Minutes later, he was raptly perusing a captioned photo gallery of 'Great Olympic Moments'.

The Captain soon sauntered in, flopping into an adjacent chair. Sparrow was in similar garb, his scarlet bandanna the only trace of his costume. Though perhaps that didn't count as 'costume'- he wore one frequently.

"How goes the studyin', Commodore?"

"I believe I've located the gymnast our guests referred to. She does bear resemblance to Nancy." James turned the laptop on his knee and pointed to a picture of a lithe young girl in a white leotard, poised like a dancer on a long wooden beam.

"That's the one. Saw 'er in 1976, at the Montreal Games." Jack regarded the screen with vague dissatisfaction. "Have ta admit, I derived greater enjoyment from the Women's Gymnastics before they were taken over by chits too young fer any proper forecastle development. Now, theer's no call fer that look, James. I'd think you'd prefer my taste in lasses ta include a minimum-age requirement."

"I do. But for purposes of enjoying athletics, you might do better to simply watch the performances." James tapped the screen. "According to the text, this young lady earned several perfect scores, which is a rare achievement. I, for one, would have appreciated a chance to witness that."

"Oh, I don't deny she were impressive- could've given any Chinese acrobat a run fer her money. But 'twas another gymnast there who earned my highest esteem." Jack reached to scroll the screen to another photo.

James read the caption, almost whistled. "The man actually managed to do that with a broken leg!"

"A display of manly fortitude as'd warm the heart of Monsieur de Coubertin, aye? Though I wonder if the Baron ever anticipated a Japanese bloke would set the standard." Jack's eye gleamed- he had no use for French snobbery. "An' he probably wouldn't have envisioned an American chit doin' somethin' similar, ten years later in Atlanta. But I only saw that on television."

"Have there been any other notable events you've personally witnessed?"

After a moment's thought, Jack scrolled the page back to the black-and-white photos, and pointed to one depicting a foot race. "I saw Jesse Owens win his four golds. 'Didn't realize the importance at the time."

"So you were at the 1936 Berlin Games."

"Incidental to my pursuing a certain business deal, yes. 'Twere no surprise to me that that lad kept comin' in first. The 'sable sons of Africa' have never been noted fer bein' slow of foot. I had no notion it was so historically significant."

"If I understand the text right, Mr. Owens' victories were considered noteworthy because they discredited the host government's claims of Aryan superiority. You hadn't noticed their attitude?"

Jack shrugged. "Then as now, James, I'm not one to pay much attention to politics. I generally follow 'em just closely enough ta detect any wars in the makin', so's I can clear out before they start."

James turned in his chair to regard Jack. "Didn't you say you'd fought in some?"

"Participated in three, skulked about the edges of two. An' that was enough. Numerous things have improved over the centuries, but wars have gotten worse- they tend ta cover a lot more area. I once scarpered halfway around the world tryin' to avoid one, an' didn't entirely succeed."

Jack's darkened eyes were showing his age, as they sometimes did when he spoke about serious matters. Norrington considered anew that, along with all the travel and fun adventures Sparrow had enjoyed over the years, he must also have endured some bad experiences. Maybe horrendous ones. The ex-Commodore knew something about what could happen in wars, and didn't care to inquire about it.

"Tell me something, Sparrow. Over the considerable length of your life, is there much of anything you haven't tried?"

Jack came back to the here and now. "Haven't done that," he replied, tapping the laptop screen. "Though I did consider it fer a time... tryin' out fer those games. Jus' bein' able ta call yerself an Olympic Athlete confers certain benefits, 'specially from admirin' wenches."

"Which event were you planning to compete in?"

"Fencing. Or possibly divin'. I hadn't decided."

"And which country did you intend to represent?"

"It would've had to've been one of the smaller ones, where 'tis generally easier to fabricate a history of citizenship. But it all became hypothetical once they made it mandatory fer every athlete ta supply a blood sample."

"Why on earth do they require blood?"

"They test it for traces of any o' several substances as can artificially enhance a body's performance, which is considered an unacceptably unfair advantage. Problem fer me is, I can't risk anyone finding out..."

"... what inhuman quantities of rum you consume?"

For once, it was Jack who gave James a 'stop clowning around' glower.

"I can't risk anyone establishin' jus' how long I've managed ta avoid shufflin' off this mortal coil. I don't imagine 'tis necessary fer me to elaborate on what highly undesirable consequences could result."

Indeed, James grimaced as he pondered the possibilities. "And you really think such a thing could be deduced from your...?"

"Mr. Norrington, the list of information which can be extracted from a bit of blood is growing all the time- I can't take the chance! Not-so-incidentally, I'd strongly advise you to be similarly cautious about the dispersion of yer own circulatory fluids. Discovery of yer year of birth won't enhance your quality of life, either. Unless you fancy becoming a fugitive."

"As that would not be my first choice, I shall keep your warning in mind." James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "On a pleasanter topic: what's the usual cost of admission to these games?"

Jack brightened. "Thinkin' of goin' to the next one?"

"The idea does appeal to me."

"They're popular, so 'tis a fair amount of shine. You haveta make reservations well ahead o' time, fer which ye'll need a full roster of identity documents. It's become much harder to sneak into 'em, since that awfulness at the Munich Games." That aged look flashed over Jack's face again. "But a front-door admission can be managed. Say the word an' I'll set about gettin' you the necessary tickets. Or will you be wantin' two sets? In case yer accustomization is sufficiently advanced by then?" He glanced in the direction of the guest cabins, and the comely redhead.

James nodded agreeably. "Two, then. On the condition you'll agree to accompany me, should I fail to find a more suitable companion."

"'Tis a deal, James! Ye may recall it 'twere my suggestion that we do some travelin'."

Norrington frowned as a disconcerting probability occurred to him. "I suppose for such a voyage, we'll be obliged to make use of those mechanical birds."

"They're called airplanes, James. An' they aren't so bad, once yer actually aboard. If it 'twill soothe yer flight anxiety..." Jack mischievously flapped a tiny brown bag he'd just nicked from Norrington's pocket, "... I'll be sure to pack a plentiful supply of M&Ms."

---

FINIS

---

Historical Notes:

At the 1976 Montreal Olympics, 14-year-old Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci won five medals; one bronze, one silver and three gold. Six of her routines received perfect scores; an unprecedented achievement in Olympic women's gymnastics.

The Japanese gymnast whom Jack so admired is Shun Fujimoto. In the same Montreal Games, during a close men's team competition against the USSR, he broke his right knee during the floor exercise, but concealed the extent of his injury. Amazingly, Fujimoto still managed to complete his event on the rings, performing a perfect triple somersault on the dismount. His score of 9.7 secured the gold metal for Japan, but at the cost of intense agony. Years later, when asked whether he'd do it again, Shun replied, "No, I would not."

The "American chit who did something similar" is gymnast Kerri Allyson Strug. At the 1996 Atlanta games, during the women's team competition, she performed a vault with an injured ankle, thinking it was needed to win the gold for her American team. The 19-year-old managed to 'stick' the landing, receiving a score of 9.7, and collapsed immediately afterwards. A more careful count revealed the additional points had not been essential for her team's victory, but Strug's brave effort still won wide acclaim.

African-American track star Jesse Owens won four sprint and long-jump events at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, and is still the best-remembered participant in those games. Though the host country did take the largest number of medals (33 gold, 89 total), Owens' achievement still punched a conspicuous hole in Hitler's implied prediction that the all-Aryan German team would sweep the awards.

The "awfulness at the Munich Games" was the murder of eleven Israeli athletes and coaches, on September 7-6, 1972, by members of the Palestinian terrorist group Black September. The terrorists managed to infiltrate the Olympic Village where the athletes were housed, initially killing two Israelis and taking nine hostage. After two days of unsuccessful negotiations, all the hostages were killed during a failed rescue attempt, along with five of the terrorists.

Security measures have been much tighter at every Olympics since.


	25. Rum and Revelations

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

"Are you sure you ought to be out there at this time of the night?"

"Of course I ought to, James. The water's lovely!" By way of demonstration, Jack swept a hand over the surface, splashing up a glowing blue frill.

Norrington, standing on shore about fifty feet away, conceded the literal truth of that statement- he'd never seen a brighter display of ocean phosphorescence. Ghostly-blue microorganisms were lighting up every disturbed patch of water, glimmering from ripples, flaring in the curls of breaking waves, and outlining a certain skinny-dipping pirate.

Said pirate was taking obvious delight in his illuminated swim. Sparrow turned on his back, kicking up an impressive eruption of blue-glitter spray, then rolled and dove with a flash of heels and buttocks. Bright streamers, scintillating along arms and flanks, marked his underwater course until he noisily surfaced, shaking showers of aquamarine sparks from his mane. Lively and playful as any seal.

The Commodore continued to keep watch, almost tempted to go in himself, but the air temperature was too low. At least for anyone lacking the body heat, and impulsiveness, of a seven-year-old.

"Jack! I really think you should come in now. If I'm getting chilled..."

"Always knew ye were a cold-blooded bloke!" was Sparrow's cheeky response. But he eventually turned and stroked for shore. Wading from the fiery surf, the dripping knave trotted to the beach crest and scooped up his small pile of shed garments. He was about to start inland when the Commodore cleared his throat, loudly.

"What?" Norrington folded his arms, regarding his companion sternly. Sparrow pouted- well in keeping with his behavior this evening- but to no avail. "Oh, verra well!" Dropping the other clothes, Jack tugged on his short breeches, and mockingly performed a runway model's pirouette. "Theer- does this meet with yer approval?"

"As much as anything about you can."

They proceeded up the pebbly path towards the house. Jack was still sulky. "I really don't see why it matters. 'Not like there's any wenches in the vicinity to offend or overexcite."

"Cavorting about like a savage makes for a most unseemly spectacle. Nudity is a practical condition for swimming, but..."

"I've never found that aspect of savages objectionable. An' it isn't that long a walk, is it?"

They had reached the pool terrace; unlit but receiving adequate illumination from the house lights. Sparrow stepped into the shower stall, shutting the door to conceal everything between shoulders and calves. Seconds later he extended his breeches over the top edge- held oh-so-properly between thumb & forefinger with a raised pinky- and dropped it into the adjacent laundry basket. "Now, if you'd prefer ta maintain the current acceptable level of civilization, 'twould be advisable to fetch me a robe an' a couple towels. If you would be so kind," Jack added, twisting the faucet.

Norrington obligingly stepped to the pool-side bin and removed the requested items, donning a robe himself to keep off the chill. As he hung the terrycloth garments onto the stall pegs, James eyed the rippling pool. It did look more appealing under starlight, though not enough to tempt him.

"I'm puzzled as to why you maintain this swimming facility at all, if you so prefer the ocean."

Jack answered whilst wringing his mop under the shower flow. "Because it's expected of anyone in my financial bracket. Also fer the entertainment of visiting business associates, some of whom are so afeared of the wildlife, or of gettin' a bit of salt in their hair, they'd sooner swim in the bilges than the sea." Sparrow snorted derisively, frowning towards the pool. "The thing's been lookin' a bit greenish. I should call the Boyers back soon."

"And who are the Boyers?"

"My maintenance staff. Hennrick, Ayida, an' their four hardworkin' whelps; Bijou, Zac, Loufie an' Agwe. Originally from Haiti. Their older boy got into a spot of serious trouble there, obligin' them to relocate in a hurry." Jack turned to rinse his back. "The six of 'em reside here most of the time, takin' care of the grounds an' housecleanin', as well as the bloody pool."

"I'd thought, all those machines..."

"... can not perform every task, James. Did you not wonder what that second dwellin' beyond the shed was for?"

"Inasmuch as I thought about it, I supposed it was to store more of your endless collection of travel souvenirs."

Jack switched off the shower, reaching over the wall to grab a towel. "No, 'tis a human habitation. Theer on paid vacation in Montserrat jus' now, until you're sufficiently recovered an' confident ta deal with additional residents."

"I believe I can handle that now. How do you plan to explain me?"

Sparrow's voice was a bit muffled under the terrycloth sheet. "I told 'em you're an old acquaintance o' mine, that you've had an accident what's left you physically an' mentally traumatized, an' you need some quiet recuperate time apart from any unfamiliar folk. In other words: I told the truth."

"Very nearly. Apart from my injury being an 'accident'."

"Even that's accurate in it's essentials." Jack began winding the other towel about his sodden hair. "Bootstrap weren't in anythin' like his normal mind when he skewered you. Seems the forced servitude aboard the Dutchman was pillagin' his brain. Just a few days afterwards, he attacked Will- his own son. Non-fatally, but 'tweren't fer lack of tryin'."

James blinked. "You mean Will Turner? That fanatical crewman was his father?"

Having shrugged on the robe, Jack emerged from the stall. "Aye. Bootstrap Bill, aka William Turner Senior. Former crewman and friend o' mine. The story of how he ended up on the Dutchman jus' might lead you to conclude he's done sufficient penance."

Norrington's hand went to his midsection, clutching fabric over his new scar- still red, but much smaller than he had any right to expect from a 'lethal' injury. "I bear him no grudge. The man was obviously deranged."

"If it's any additional consolation, I had it from Will Jr. that, after the curse was broke an' sanity restored, Bootstrap was properly regretful about doin' you in. Mostly 'cause he'd seen how it'd upset Lizzie." Jack was sure he detected a pleased glint in James' eye. "I feel like stayin' out here a bit longer- what say you?"

Norrington straightened his robe. "I shall too. I'm feeling much warmer now."

"Fancy a snack?"

At James' nod, Sparrow moved towards the little outdoor refrigerator, leaving Norrington to ponder this revelation.

This was the first time he'd heard William's father was still alive... that is, alive at that time. Jack hadn't included that detail when he'd given James a brief account of what became of Elizabeth and William. The two had been married at the height of the battle against Beckett's forces, but shortly afterwards Will had dispatched Davy Jones' heart, so had been obliged to captain the Flying Dutchman for a decade. After that, he'd rejoined Elizabeth on land, and they'd spent the rest of their lives together. They had successfully raised "three verra fine whelps", and died in their seventies. Norrington was glad for them... at least, as glad as one could be for people long dead. Now, he was reading new implications into Jack's statement that the couple had chosen to pass away at sea.

Sparrow returned, bearing a small golden bottle and an opened bag of M&Ms. He shook out a few of the latter for himself, knowing rum and chocolate was a pleasing flavor combination, and handed the rest to James. The two sipped and chewed in companionable silence, regarding the pattern of stars peering through night-blown palm fronds, and distant waves flickering like blue neon tubes.

"Do you happen to know what became of Bootstrap, after his son completed his tenure?"

If Sparrow had been caught off guard, he didn't let on. "Aye; Will explained. Fer those first ten years, young Turner's talent fer bloody pigheaded dedication was needed ta clear the backlog of deceased, which'd built up through the years of Jones' negligence. Once that had been dealt with, a sailor of more ordinary above-average abilities could handle the captaincy. Bootstrap volunteered ta take over, allowin' his whelp an' bonnie Liz ta live happily, if not ever after, at least fer one long lifetime. Last I heard, Bootstrap was still holdin' that position. Should you happen ta make yer final crossin' whilst at sea, you'll likely have a chance to get his apology in pers..."

Out of nowhere, Jack smacked his own cheek, sloshing the rum bottle. "Buggerin' hell! I jus' recollected somethin' else Will told ta me! You might want to sit down fer this, James."

Though he doubted it was necessary, Norrington took a seat at the edge of a lounger. Jack sat next to him, downing a good swallow of liquor.

"Captain Turner's first assignment was ta collect the immortal remains of them who'd perished in our skirmish with the EITC. When relating this to me, he mentioned there'd been one puzzling occurrence. Or rather, non-occurrence. They'd never found soul nor body of yer own fair self. Will could only assume Calypso, or one of her ilk, had collected you fer special dispensation, on account of the brave an' self-sacrificial way you were scuttled."

To himself, James admitted it was just as well he was sitting. "It appears Mr. Turner was correct about the 'special dispensation'. Just sadly deluded about who was responsible."

Jack gave his former adversary a lopsided grin. "This ought ta make you feel better about bein' here. Apparently, 'twas fated ta be."

James wasn't altogether sure how he felt. "Be honest, Jack: did this statement of Turner's have any effect on your choice?"

"None whatsoever! I'd forgot it until jus' this minute. Which is no regret! 'Tis one of the most oft-repeated lessons of the Greek Myths, that theer's naught but trouble ta be had from gettin' involved in the fulfillment of prophecies. Best to let 'em take care of themselves."

Another possibility occurred to Norrington. "What about your time-transversing friends? Are they equipped to perceive such, inevitabilities?" Even in the dim light, James recognized the sudden shuttered look closing over Jack's expression. "Is it really so dangerous for me to know that?"

"We've been over this before, mate. It's not that I mistrust you, specifically. My accord with them is, neither of us tells anybody anythin' about the other, beyond that bare minimum I've already revealed to you. They require secrecy fer the same reason I do. We both face abysmal prospects if discovered."

"A high probably of being exploited- perhaps brutally," James specified. "Being at risk myself, I can sympathize. But you can hardly blame me for being curious about them. I've developed some theories..."

"Theorize all ye want. Jus' don't ask me to confirm or deny any of 'em. Given reason, I am actually capable of keepin' me word."

Mention of those 'beings' was one of the few things which consistently brought Jack's more-mature self to the fore. Perversely, this tended to rouse James' less-mature self. Now he couldn't resist showing off what he'd manage to deduce.

Popping the last few M&Ms into his mouth, Norrington continued. "I do not request confirmation, but thought you might be interested. My theory is, the 'invaluable service' you performed for these beings involved preserving their anonymity. You shielded them from a threatened exposure, or undid one which had already occurred. Who better, than a man with centuries of practice at just that kind of subterfuge?"

It was undeniably gratifying to watch Sparrow's face twitch with the same annoyance James so frequently experienced. "Theer's no need ta flaunt yer outstanding powers of deduction to me, Commodore. I've been aware of it ever since that occasion when you figured out the exact date the Tarquin would be makin' berth at Guanaja. Not every Naval mind could've put the clues together. You have my complements, albeit a bit late."

A rather obvious effort to change the subject, but James allowed it. Ambushing Captain Lyle Thurgood's ship had been one of his most successful pirate hunts, and he was pleased somebody remembered. "So you don't resent my eliminating one of your colleagues?"

Jack's lip curled. "I held no high opinion of Thurgood. The bastard made a point of bein' cruel to wenches. I hope you know I never favored that."

James' tone was grim. "That was one hanging I attended with no regret." He assumed it went without saying, that he'd felt more regret at Jack's.

/ But there's no need to mention it aloud. He probably won't enjoy the reminder. Sparrow survived, and that's all that matters... Good lord, I'm starting to think just like him! /

Jack was already pondering other matters. He tapped his chin, as he commonly did when 'havin' a thought'.

"You know, James, once yer ready ta move on ta some less-frivolous profession than reenactor, you might consider puttin' yer talents towards doin' detective work. Theer's still rogues an' miscreants ta be hunted down. Though a lot fewer of 'em are eligible fer execution."

Norrington was aware of this- modern laws and legal systems had been a central focus of his internet studies. "I hope you know, the opportunity to deliver criminals to the gallows was never my primary motivator. My satisfaction came from affording protection to ordinary citizens. To that end, I have, indeed, been researching other positions. One possibility would be the United States Coast Guard."

Jack nodded approvingly. "Marine rescue an' law enforcement- aye, that'd fit your vocation! Perhaps especially their Investigative Services division. You are aware they require USA citizenship?"

"I've established they accept naturalized citizens, and I am perfectly willing to undergo that process."

"I could save you a lot of time an' trouble, if..."

Norrington cut him off. "Sparrow, I was willing to let you employ a forger to produce my British passport and birth certificate because that was the only available means. And because, with the exception of my birth year, those documents are a truthful representation of my status. But there's no need to resort to illegal methods to alter my citizenship. Unlike you, I have a strong preference for doing things above-boards."

Sparrow pouted a bit, tugging the wrapped towel from his damp hair. "Suit yerself. Anyway, the bigger obstacle might be yer need fer detailed familiarization with the operations of motor-powered ships."

"I'd been meaning to speak with you about that. You did mention you own some vessels other than the _Lady Buccaneer_."

Jack caught on at once. "Aye! You could get work experience aboard my most up-to-date yacht, the _Charming Murderess_. Mind, ye'll have ta start at midshipman level."

"I would expect nothing else... did you say _Charming Murderess_?"

Jack suddenly sagged, looking much older. "There's a tale behind that. Not one guaranteed ta warm the heart."

"I gathered as much. Then why did you choose it?"

"'Twas jus' habit, really. Fer some while now I've been namin' all my ships after one particular wench."

James considered the monikers of the two Jack-owned ships he knew of. Something clicked.

"It seems there is, or was, more to Elizabeth Swann than I ever suspected."

"You have no idea, mate." Though he spoke without rancor, Jack also drained the rum bottle with one gulp. At this late hour he was more vulnerable to the depleting effects of unpleasant memories, and it showed.

Norrington shifted closer to the drooping pirate, until their shoulders touched. Jack leaned wearily against him. James allowed it.

"Don't mean ta make her sound worse'en she was. 'Tis been a long day, such as sometimes brings out the 'bad humours'." Jack tilted his head to stare wistfully up at James' face. "I don't think I've said so, Commodore, but, fated or not, I am happy to have you here."

"And I am not unhappy to know that," James replied matter-of-factly.

Sparrow took that in the spirit intended. He relaxed more heavily against James' shoulder, eyelids falling to half-mast, emitting a peaceful sigh. Norrington sighed too, knowing what was likely to follow.

It did. A few minutes later, Jack was lying curled on his side, head pillowed on James' leg. That daft pirate didn't take much longer to fall asleep than he did to wake up.

James idly fingered the damp dreadlocks, pondering his best course of action. He felt disinclined to disturb his friend's obviously-needed slumber, or to leave him on the lounger on such a cool night. Fortunately, Sparrow was relatively small, so the third option- carrying him inside and putting him to bed- presented no real difficulty.

After pulling back the sheets and setting his charge down, Norrington considered leaving the robe on. But, anticipating Sparrow could become entangled during the night and wake up squawking, he relented. Like a missionary in reverse, he converted Jack to his preferred 'savage' state before tucking him in.

"Just don't expect me to do this every time you stay up so late," James murmured. "You're too old by far, to require a nanny. Even if you don't always act like it."

Bestowing a last fond look, the ex-Commodore turned off the light and retired to his own room.

In the sheltering darkness, Jack smiled contentedly.

---

FINIS

---

The rare and beautiful phenomena of 'ocean phosphorescence' occurs during blooms (sudden population explosions) of bioluminescent plankton, particularly dinoflagellates. Possibly as a defense against approaching predators, any nearby disturbance in the water provokes them to luminesce, producing 'cold light' of blue or blue-green color.


	26. Pavor Nocturnus

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

----

A late-night sound brought Jack to instant wakefulness: the click of his bedroom door being opened. Ever since Barbossa's mutiny, that particular noise had power to cut through even his deepest sleep, whether he was at sea or on land.

The former pirate half-opened his eyes, fixing them on the very-slowly opening door. A head peeking around the jamb- it was James Norrington. Jack's concern subsided, but then perked again. The generous moonlight streaming through the skylight, and Sparrow's reliable night vision, revealed that James was shaken.

The Commodore was easy (and rather fun) to annoy. It took little more effort to provoke him to startlement, anger, enjoyment, amusement or regret. But one thing Norrington was not readily moved to was fear. Though the first word Jack had ever heard him yell had been (rather understandably) tinged with that passion, he had never witnessed anything resembling real fright on the navyman's face. Until now.

Sparrow debated for a second before sitting up. "What's wrong, James?"

The scared expression was promptly replaced by an embarrassed one. "Nothing. I didn't intend to wake you. I, just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Jack arched a brow. "Had you reason to believe I wasn't?" His nocturnal visitor looked even more abashed, and Jack guessed. "Bad dream?"

James nodded, making move to withdraw. "My apologies for the disturbance, Sparrow."

"No need ta scarper, Commodore. The recommended way to deal with nightmares is to talk about 'em, an' I'm an adequate listener."

With some reluctance, James stepped into the room. At Jack's gesture, he sat on the edge of the mattress, slightly slumped, fingering his terrycloth sash.

Jack shifted nearer. Out of deference to James' sensibilities, he was careful to keep the sheet tucked about his waist. (A corner of his mind recalled their exchange from yesterday: "Never saw the necessity of wearin' anything fer sleepin'. Shouldn't be needed fer keepin' warm; that's what blankets are for." "What about the chill when you get up?" "That's what robes are for.")

"So, I take it this dream involved meself."

Norrington nodded again. "You were in danger, and I couldn't get to you."

Jack's face went very grave. "Did this involve a lab table?"

"What? No, no tables of any kind. Somebody had seized you. A large individual, I think, though I couldn't see clearly. We were both in a darkened room. You were being pulled away, frightened and calling for help. I was trying, very hard, to reach you, but something was keeping me back- entangling me. I couldn't tell what. You know how dreams are."

"Aye, I do. Then what happened?"

"I thrashed, trying to get loose, and woke myself up. But my anxiety was still so acute, I wanted to see for myself, that you were..."

"... safe in me room, not dragged off to some horrendous an' undeserved fate. Most thoughtful of you, James." Sparrow propped his elbows on his knees. "That's a very common variety o' nightmare- bein' deprived of yer usual copin' abilities. More folk have 'em than not. My own used ta involve failin' to spot shoals before I ran aground. Or suddenly findin' meself weaponless in the midst of a battle."

"I've had dreams like that too. I suppose, this one's of a similar bent. Having spent so much of my life defending others, being deprived of any ability to do so would be..."

Jack saw a chance to lighten the mood. "Does this mean you now consider me one o' the people worthy of protection, rather 'en one to protect 'em against?"

James straightened, facing Sparrow more squarely. "You're not a practicing pirate anymore... at least, so far as I know. Of course I would not hesitate to come to your aid, should you need it."

"Good ta know that." Resuming his serious tone, Jack added, "Let's jus' hope that won't be necessary."

James felt a nasty twinge, suspecting the implication behind Sparrow's 'lab table' inquiry. "Would your... that is, would your time-traveler acquaintances be able to help you, if you were ever...?"

"I couldn't count on theer risking exposure fer my sake, James. I've no reason to believe I mean all that much to 'em," was Jack's resigned answer.

Norrington's guardian instincts arose. "You've come to mean something to me, Sparrow. I shall certainly protect you as best I'm able to."

The ex-pirate looked touched. And then practical. "If yer applyin' fer a position as bodyguard, that does involve a salary."

"I didn't actually mean..."

"Even if you didn't, it might be worth formalizin' the arrangement. My business associates are always advisin' me to take more precautions against kidnappin'. Not that they know anythin' about my special situation- 'tis a risk fer any well-financed individual."

Norrington couldn't suppress a smirk. "Jack Sparrow needs to be on guard against kidnappers? How ironic."

Forgetting propriety, Jack pushed himself forward with both arms. "If you're referrin' to that item on my list of 'egregious crimes', I'll have you know I had naught ta do with Tommy Forsythe's comin' aboard the _Whimbrel!_ That foolish lad stowed away, to escape some no doubt well-deserved punishment his Da was threatenin'. I was admirably restrained when the whelp was discovered; jus' gave him a scoldin' an' set him ta doin' such chores as he could handle. Never overworked him, or laid a harsh hand on 'im, nor let any of me crew do so. My orders were to mete out only such disciplines as they'd bestow upon theer own kids. If his parents were at all honest, they'd have admitted young Master Forsythe came home with a far more civil tongue 'en the one he'd left with. An' no worse fer wear anyplace else."

"But you did collect a ransom."

"'Twere only fair we should have compensation fer the whelp's livin' expenses- it's not like those few chores covered his considerable grub intake. Also fair to get a bit more, fer all the trouble we had keepin' him out from underfoot. It were never my intent ta harm the boy if it weren't paid."

"You rather failed to convey that in the ransom note."

"We didn't want his Da to delay handin' over the shine, did we? A pirate ship can't do proper business with a brat aboard! We really should've been further compensated fer the riskier raids we didn't try, fer worry the lad could get hurt."

James looked incredulous. "A buccaneer crew exercised such self-restraint?"

Jack shrugged. "The _Whimbrel's_ crew weren't the most dedicated pirates, havin' got into the profession only by default, an' several havin' offspring of theer own at home. I myself hain't indifferent 'bout puttin' whelps into the line o' fire. Any of 'em- even the saucy ones- deserve a fair chance to reach adulthood."

"If you regard adulthood as a worthwhile achievement, why have you never aspired to it yourself?" Norrington inquired dryly.

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Obviously, the talking cure's been effective. Yer back to yer normal snarky self."

"'Snarky'?"

"Prone to repeated an' gratuitous insults, you stuffy wig-loving stick-up-arsed Naval toff! But I suppose that don't detract from a bodyguard's credentials. We can draw up the paperwork tomorrow... or more correctly, later this mornin'."

Jack settled back down, throwing the covers over himself. "Now I'd advise ya ta spend the intervenin' hours layin' down with yer eyes closed. And no more disagreeable dreams! That's an order, ya sleep-interferin'-with git." He gave Norrington a small kick through the sheet.

James rose and moved to exit, but couldn't resist a parting shot. "With all due respect, Mr. Sparrow, it's a certainty I'll be experiencing more nightmares, if I'm to be in charge of guarding you."

Norrington shut the door just in time to deflect a viciously hurled pillow.  
---

FINIS

---

The _Whimbrel_ was a brig Jack captained for a time, in the years between the Pearl mutiny and events in CotBP. A brief account of how he acquired her is included in Chapter 2 of my fic, 'Revelations Between Friends.'

The full story of Tommy Forsythe's time aboard the _Whimbrel_ is told in another of my fics: 'Captains Outrageous'.


	27. Miami Snark

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

--

On a street in a seedier section of Miami, Florida

--

"I swear, Sparrow, I shall never understand how you do it!"

"Well, mate, it's mostly in the hands. You need slim fingers, really flexible wrists, an'..."

"I refer to your nigh-unfailing ability to turn even the simplest excursion into a disaster!"

"Not sure I'd go so far ez ta call our current present situation a 'disaster'. 'Serious inconvenience', perhaps..."

"Exactly what was the value of those chips you were obliged to leave behind?"

"Seven hundred fifty dollars- but I'd lifted most of 'em. I really think yer overreacting ta this."

"Do you? Then let me review exactly what we have undergone over the past hour: we've had several guns pointed at us, at least two of which were fired. We barely missed a score of kitchen knives and a scalding pot in passing, we came close to being run down in a parking lot, we dodged a train... that's what that long noisy vehicle was?"

"Aye."

"Dodged a train, swam across a distinctly malodorous canal, and shall apparently be some while transversing this not-at-all prepossessing neighborhood, in sopping wet clothes, before we reach a location from which we can hope to secure transport to that maintenance dock which we ought to have proceeded to in the first place. All due to your 'hardly significant meander'! Just what part of this fiasco am I overreacting to?"

"Well, James, it ain't like we were, in actuality, shot, scalded or run over."

"By sheer chance! I am completely at a loss to comprehend how you managed to survive for three centuries with such a deficit of common sense!"

"Ah, well- compensatin' fer that deficit's what I hired you fer, ain't it?"

"Do let's be clear on something, Sparrow: having a bodyguard accompaniment is not license to do something so rash as crashing a high-stakes poker game of dubious legality and more dubious participants, and then attempting to cheat."

"Wouldn't of been a problem, if I hadn't got caught at it."

"But, you were. Therefore, it was."

"You disappoint me, James. Where's yer sense of adventure?"

"Overridden by my preference for keeping us both alive and in reasonable states of health, and dryness. Speaking of which; please do cease shaking your mane right beside me! It's like being next to a sodden sheepdog."

"Humph. 'Rather be a sheepdog than a starchy windbag toff."

"Better a toff, than a preposterously over-aged juvenile."

"Pompous ass!"

"Feckless libertine!"

"Stuffy Commodore!"

"Absurd Pirate!"

"Ah, jus' like olden days."

"I'm becoming nostalgic for them myself..."

--

FINIS


	28. Regarding Penelope

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

"Not quite so harrowing after all, eh, Mr. Norrington?"

"Indeed not, Mr. Sparrow." And about due for it, James thought. So many things in his new life were difficult to get used to, it seemed only fair there should be some which were easier than expected. This certainly qualified. He was experiencing his first trip aboard an airplane, and finding it surprisingly enjoyable.

To make restitution for the needlessly rough waters he'd steered them into in Miami, Sparrow had chartered something called a 'Learjet 60' to take them home. Jack's initial description of a plane as being "like a bloody big bird, made of metal" had perhaps been unfortunate. Norrington had imagined passengers must endure constant dipping and rolling, as one would on a bird's back. But, unfamiliar sounds aside, this was no worse than riding a small enclosed boat on a smooth sea. A particularly elegant boat, at that- the color scheme was pale gray and polished wood, the padded chairs were most accommodating, and the view... James could hardly pull his eyes away from the large rectangular porthole. Such an expanse of jewel-bright blueness, broken by occasional white-rimmed green islands, and dotted with impossibly tiny ships. He'd anticipated it would be interesting, but had underestimated the beauty.

Jack rose from his own seat across from James', moving to the back of the cabin to get drinks from the 'mini bar'. He returned with two tall glasses of iced rum-and-cola, and small bowl of M&Ms, which he set on the burled-wood table between them. James continued to stare out as he lifted his glass and sipped.

"You appear thoroughly captivated, ol' Commodore."

"Perhaps because I am." James noted some passing cloud shadows, darkening patches of ocean to darker turquoise. "I have been wondering if this is how the sea looks from God's viewpoint."

"Could be!" Jack happily slurped his own drink. "'Deep calleth upon deep at the noise of Thy waterspouts: all Thy waves and Thy billows are gone over me.'"

James' stare jerked to his companion. "Now that sounds more than slightly incongruous! A former pirate, and current libertine, quoting the Psalms."

"Not really so astonishin'. I cut my readin' teeth on the Bible, which you may credit to a long-ago tutor o' mine who believed everybody ought ta be familiar with that tome. Not from any concern 'bout fire an' brimstone- neither Mum nor Da would've hired that sort- but because he regarded it as a great work of classic literature. Perhaps the greatest, exceptin' only the plays of Shakespeare." Responding to James' quirked brow, Jack added, "Not that he was ever reckless enough ta say so! But I could deduce from the way he handled the texts: he regarded the Bard's pennings as the most lofty apex human language had ever achieved. I never had the heart to tell him I preferred Molière."

This revelation- that Jack Sparrow's upbringing had included at least one hired tutor- was most intriguing. Norrington resolved to analyze the implications later. He took another cold swallow before remarking, "Molière being your childhood favorite is nearly as unexpected."

"Oh, not me most favorite. That'd be Homer, Ovid, an' the rest of those antique yarn-spinners. Verra fine stories, the Greek Myths! Even have somethin' in common with the Good Book: ancient writings makin' points which're still relevant. I especially liked the tales that included sea voyagin'. 'The Odyssey', of course. Jason an' the Argonauts. Heracles' tenth labor, sailin' past Gibraltar Rock an' west, to Geryon's island. I was convinced that must've been Barbados. 'Tis still me preferred theory."

"And I suppose you found a role model in Hermes, the god of thieves and tricksters."

"I identify more with Loki, in the Norse pantheon. That bloke weren't anybody's messenger boy." Jack fingered his glass, regarding James thoughtfully. "If I might make similar inquiry: what whelphood readings contributed most to ta the making of Commodore Norrington?"

James' eyes turned back to the brilliant ocean, misting slightly. "I also enjoyed 'The Odyssey'. And Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales'. And especially Mallory's 'Le Morte D'Arthur'. King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table were my first heroes. Before you ask; yes, there was a time when I viewed Elizabeth Swann as my Guinevere... " the larger man slumped, "... very carelessly overlooking her preference for Lancelot."

Sparrow nodded. "With all due respect to the not-so-late Will Turner, I were tellin' the truth when I said I was rootin' fer you, mate. Then as now, you're in possession of every quality a marriage-minded lass could reasonably want- 'least so far as I'm able to judge. A fine-lookin', book-learned chap, strong an' fit, with manners, courage, morals, social standin'... admittedly, that last credential's taken' a broadside, but a repairable one. I'm sure theer's any number o' chits who'd be flattered ta catch yer interest."

James pensively drained his cola drink. "And once they learn of my personal circumstances?"

"Might not matter. There's so many lasses what are financially independent these days, you could probably find one willin' ta... Oh. But you'd not be willin', would you?"

"You know I wouldn't."

"Well, as I said, 'tis a repairable situation. An' once that's accomplished, you can likely have yer pick of the wenches."

Norrington gave Jack a wry look. "Aren't you the one who advised me to restrain myself from calling them 'wenches', because that term is now considered an insult?"

"'Tis only an insult if you say it within their hearing. At the moment, theer's nobody here but us blokes. So do tell me, James..." Jack sank back into the padding, sensuously crooking an arm above his head, "... what manner o' chit would you fancy most?"

James had no trouble recognizing that particular eye gleam. Some things, it seemed, remained constant in every century- one of them being the way men liked to discuss women. (He suspected the reverse was also true, though he couldn't know firsthand.)

Norrington set his glass in the round slot and settled back, launching into his well-practiced answer. "I would prefer she be no more than ten years younger, or five years older, than myself. She should maintain a habit of cleanliness. She must possess sufficient intelligence and education to converse on a variety of subjects, for it would drive me mad to hear of nothing but household concerns and society gossip whenever I came home."

"That does exclude a goodly portion of the female population, but theer's still a fair chunk remainin'."

"I do not demand she have the disposition of an angel- unlike some men, I realize this is not something nature is prone to serve up. But I would want her manners to be superior to those of a market-woman. She should have a patient way with children, since our own must be treated with..."

He paused. Jack was raising a finger to interject a comment. "Word of advice, mate: be sure you make early mention of yer desire fer offspring to any chit yer seriously courtin'. Because not every lass has that same preference. Theer's been many a lad who's brought endless strife onto hisself, from assumin' his beloved's reproductive intents were a match to his own. Best ta establish yer plans are in sync prior to the 'I Do's."

Norrington was taken aback. "Is this speaking from experience?"

"No, 'tis speakin' from very reliable observation. Don't scorn it! I didn't bring you back from the dead, virtually, jus' so's you could have another go at makin' yerself miserable."

The serious tone reminded James that, every now and then, Sparrow talked like the Wise Old Man his life span merited. Norrington turned the advice over in his mind, concluded it was probably sound.

"When, and if, the occasion arises, I shall make a point to do that. Though it won't be anytime soon."

"I'd hope not." The ex-pirate relaxed into his more usual self. "So, back ta the more pleasurable phase of the hunt. What bodily attributes would you be lookin' fer?"

"Her height and proportions should be normal- neither giantess nor dwarf, scarecrow nor sow. Her complexion should be of even color. I have no objection to moderate freckling, or a normal number of scars, but would not want her pox-marked."

"Now that ye needn't worry about. Smallpox is virtually gone. Eliminated entirely, it's been said, though I've some skepticism about it."

"Very auspicious news, in either case. Her skin tone... I have always considered paleness to be overrated. I prefer a woman who looks as though she does not spend her entire existence shut indoors. The limbs should be sound, but not massive. Nor stick-thin. The bosoms should..." James suddenly hesitated.

"... be protruding as bowsprits, large an' juicy as melons, with an arse ta match?" Jack finished helpfully. At Norrington's glare, he countered, "Now James, I know well enough that even fine upstandin' gentlemen are known ta have such tastes!"

"I don't deny some of us do. Or that we're known discuss it amongst ourselves. But gentlemen do not customarily employ the vocabulary of dockside sailors comparing the selling points of harlots."

Jack sniffed. "Then what is yer preferred terminology?"

"I would want her bosoms to be... notably rounded in contour, and no smaller than the average size. This may be said of other features not on public view. And that is all I care to disclose about it."

"Spoilsport. So, what of her more publicly-visible features?"

"The face should have greater height than width. The lips should be more conspicuous than a man's, though not greatly augmented with rouge- even a plain face is more pleasing than one sporting copious quantities of paint. I have some preference for brown or hazel eyes, but as long as they're clear and matched, any shade can be attractive. Likewise, 'her hair shall be of what color it please God.' And the style may be of her choosing. I would require only that it be kept clean and well-groomed- I appreciate a lustrous quality."

"Well, mate, I'd say you have reason fer hope. Theer are lasses around who meet much of that criteria." Jack swirled the last ice in his glass. "Hypothetically speakin': if a chit you were courtin' offered ta dye her hair to 'what color it please you', what'd be yer first choice?"

"I do have a certain liking for red hair, which was supposed to have been Guinevere's hue. You needn't bring up Elizabeth. I said 'liking', not 'requirement.'"

Jack was looking sly again. "I can think of a more obtainable lady with such pigmentation. 'Has the same surname as one of yer most-admired authors, too- that can't be a bad sign!"

"Miss... Ms. Meredith Chaucer. Our recent 'Lubber Cruise' passenger," James dutifully recited.

"I knew you'd recollect the lass! If you don't mind my askin'; what was the substance of yer post-docking conversation with her?"

"We exchanged some basic personal information. She holds some position called 'artistic designer', at a large corporation in Orlando Florida. I informed her I'm currently recuperating from a traumatic injury, so am not in the best circumstances to pursue a relationship. Mer... Ms. Chaucer, did provide me with a small paper imprinted with her phone number, and invited me to contact her when my situation improved."

"You should call an' say Hello, jus' ta keep her reminded of yer existence! She can hardly resent it, seein' how 'twas she who extended the invitation."

"I, seem to have misplaced the paper."

"No problem, mate. I can look up her number in our customer records."

James had to repress a sigh. "Sparrow, that would hardly be fair to her. It has always been my intent to establish a solid career before pursuing any prospects for marriage. As my career has been... I believe the expression is 'set back to square one', it will be some time before..." Again, Norrington paused. The ex-pirate was regarding him with a conspiratorial smile.

"I know a way ta take ten, fifteen years off yer age. That should afford yer life schedule a bit more leeway, savvy?"

"And how shall I explain my appearance being at odds with the birth dates on my identity documents?"

"Anyone remarks on it, jus' reply that you exercise, an' are careful what you eat. That'll be true as far as it goes. At least," Jack smirked evilly, "it will be, if you try ta limit yer intake of 'eating chocolate'."

James sheepishly glanced at the empty candy dish. He probably had been overindulging in that confection, so readily available and so superior in texture to that of his own era (his former era, he corrected himself.) He'd taken a fancy to several varieties, including the 'Snickers' Jack liked, but M&Ms remained his favorite. Particularly in combination with rum-cola drinks.

Sparrow waved his hands like a gracefully off-balance conductor. "An' when you do reach an age when that explanation shall no longer suffice, theer are ways to assume a new identity, even in these security-tightened times. If by then, yer shackled to... that is, married to, Ms Chaucer, or some other wench you don't care ta leave in yer wake, she can partake of the same benefits. As might any offspring of yours who've reached the age of consent."

James had to massage his temples. "I am really not prepared to contemplate such possibilities yet, Jack. There has been far too much strangeness in my life as it is. Homer himself could hardly have written anything more improbable."

Sparrow tilted his head. "That's not necessarily a bad thing, is it? You did say you favor 'The Odyssey'."

"So I do. Not least of all, because the poor beleaguered wanderer finally ends his voyage in the embrace of a loving wife."

"That ain't actually the finish. 'Tis some writers' contention that, some months afterwards, he resumed his journeyin'."

"An Odysseus patterned after Jack Sparrow would do that. In another author's sequel, the wanderer would spend the rest of his days at Penelope's side, peacefully tending to their Ithacan estate, recalling his travels with fondness but no urge to increase their number."

"That'd be an Odysseus modeled after Will Turner." Jack met James' eye challengingly. "What about one based on James Norrington? I'd take ye fer a blighter who'd want somethin' in-between."

"I'm not certain yet," James admitted. "I shall probably have a better idea, once I've found an 'angle of repose' for myself."

"Fortunately, theer's no rush ta find it. In any case..." Jack glanced out, as their craft began to tilt, "...looks like this particular leg of the voyage is almost over."

The plane was descending towards the airstrip on Sparrow's little island. Heeding the lighted sign, the men stowed the dishware, fastened their seat belts, and stared out at the nearing sea.

Jack leaned eagerly against the window. "James! Get a gander at that!"

Norrington was already gaping. The azure surface below was checkered with hundreds of squarish black forms with lazily undulating corners.

"Manta rays! A fair pod of 'em, headed straight fer our beach!" Sparrow confirmed excitedly. "At the rate they're goin', they'll arrive just after we do- we might get ta see them dance!"

James had witnessed that 'dance' once before. Great dark leaping forms, breaching alone or in groups, flipping to flash pale bellies before crashing back with resounding splashes and whipping tail flicks. A school this size had potential to present a most impressive spectacle.

"I would be more than willing to accompany you to the beach watch that." And as Sparrow's bodyguard, James felt obligated to go along to make sure Jack didn't swim out for a closer look, and risk getting squashed under one of the beasts. To judge from the 'delighted child' face, pressed tight against the window glass, it seemed likely he'd want to do just that.

James shook his head. / I might have to seriously consider using the Fountain. This job seems to include a high probability of premature aging. /  
---

FINIS

---

"Her hair shall be of what color it please God" is a quote from bachelor Benedict, describing his own ideal woman in Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing'.

The manta ray (Manta birostris) is the largest species of ray, obtaining a width of up to 25 feet, and having one of the largest brain/ bodymass ratios of any fish. Mantas sometimes swim in large aggregations, which are known to engage in breaching; jumping entirely clear of the water, sometimes to heights of six feet. The purpose of this behavior is unknown; it may be a form of communication (the sound of the splash carries a long distance), a method of dislodging external parasites, or simply play.


	29. Sailing On

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

Captain Sparrow was leaning forward, tightly gripping the boom rope, dreadlocks and red bandanna flung to the wind. Singing loud and happily:

_"When I was four or five or six, the sea rocked me to sleep,  
And simple dreams would float to me like bubbles from the deep,  
Sleep was like some opium they smoked on foreign shores,  
And dolphins saw me safely on as my heartstrings pulled the oars,_

_And the ship was my bed, waves were my pillow  
And the dark sky breathed, the sheets used to billow  
As I'd go sailing on, sailing on,  
I'd go sailing on my dreams!"_

James had wondered what appeal Jack found in a 'seafaring' song so obviously written by, and for, lubbers. Upon inquiry, Sparrow had replied, with an amorous curl of the lips, that it brightened his mood to recall the circumstances under which he'd first heard it. Norrington had not asked for details.

_"Seagulls ricocheted against the diamond-hard blue sea,  
Mermaids sang and flying fish would dance on air for me,  
I made it home by sunrise, as daylight filled the air,  
My face was wet with brine and foam and sand spilled from my hair..."_

Admittedly, the ex-pirate's rendition of the silly ballad made it fairly tolerable. Jack's light-baritone voice was of better quality than Norrington had ever suspected. Perhaps he'd told the truth, about having an onstage singing career in the 1870s.

_"The north wind took me to God knows where,  
Oceans uncharted, drunk with salt air!"_

That last line did ring true- being doused with kicked-up sea foam was having effects similar to mild intoxication. On both of them. The former buccaneer and navyman were currently taking a fast afternoon sail around the islet, in Jack's trim little double-sail sloop, the _Rum Burner_ (a moniker which had puzzled Norrington until he recalled Sparrow's naming criteria.) Under bellied canvas and blue sky, all their personality differences evaporated, leaving only their shared love of speed, wind, and open water. James leaned into the rudder, steering the sloop further offshore.

Some minutes later the breeze died down, slackening the sails. As the craft slowed, Jack shifted his grasp to the mainmast rope and stood, eyes on the horizon, smiling brightly as the sun itself. It was striking how, even shirtless, he looked every inch a Captain.

"Our current position, if you please, Mr. Norrington!"

James checked the little stern-mounted screen. "Sir, we are precisely two-point-seven kilometers north-northeast of the point where you last asked!"

The GPS receiver clearly wasn't essential for an excursion within sight of land, but James wanted to familiarize himself with it's usage, and with all current nautical technologies. He was days away from starting his apprenticeship aboard Jack's yacht, the _Charming Murderess_, scheduled to disembark for Europe in a week. The 'global positioning system' was an innovation he entirely approved of, even if it's workings strained his powers of comprehension. He understood the principle of trilateration well enough, but the notion of floating machines emitting invisible beams, from miles up in the sky... Like the related assertion about men literally walking on the moon, this was an allegation James preferred to keep at the back of his awareness. For now, anyway.

Several online websites, such as 'howstuffworks', were proving to be useful for finding readable explanations on the mechanics of modern devices. At Jack's urging, James was making a special point to read about automobiles, aka cars: motor-powered carriages, fueled by flammable liquid, which were now the primary means of overland travel. Sparrow contended James must eventually learn how to operate one, not only because it was a crucial job qualification, but because "Many lasses consider inability ta drive ta be a real deficit in a bloke." And the opinion of 'lasses' was not completely irrelevant to James' future plans.

_"And the ship was my bed, waves were my pillow  
And the dark sky breathed, the sheets used to billow  
As I'd go sailing on, sailing on,  
I'd go sailing on my dreams!"_

Norrington politely cut in. "Tell me about this townhouse of yours."

Jack turned against a backdrop of clear air and seabird cries. "'Tain't that much to tell. It's an old building I bought on impulse, jus' to have someplace ta lay me head when I've business in London. Kitchen, necessary room an' sitting-parlor on the first floor, three bedrooms on the second, and a garret barely tall enough ta allow upright standing. Small garden out back- good sun exposure, as you'll soon see fer yerself. Songbirds staking out territories on every windowsill, so I hope you don't mind early awakenings. One other definite point in it's favor: 'tis only a short walk from Hyde Park."

"I always did enjoy outings there." With unintended melancholy, James added, "I imagine it's significantly changed by now."

"Maybe not so much as you'd think. The Serpentine Lake an' Kensington Gardens are still theer." Sparrow regarded his friend sympathetically. "In any event, James, you really do need ta re-familiarize yerself with yer hometown. Haveta be able ta speak about it convincingly, should that come up during job interviews."

Norrington's mood dropped a notch. "Are my misgivings that obvious?"

"Not that yer showin' it plainly, but 'tis no stretch ta deduce. I don't suppose it's a joyous prospect, touring previously familiar locales that've suddenly become unfamiliar."

The former Commodore resolved to buck up. "I assure you, I have undergone more strenuous adjustments. If I could endure serving under Lord Beckett's command for even a brief..."

James hesitated, for he'd rarely seem thunderclouds invade Jack's expression quite that rapidly. "Have I just touched a raw nerve?"

"That is an appropriate usage of the expression." The jib stirred; Jack busied himself adjusting a rope.

"I assure you, that was not my deliberate intent. As you reported your side won it's battle against the EITC armada, and Beckett was among the casualties, I'd not have thought reminder of him would be particularly disturbing."

"I did prevail in the final confrontation, but our earlier skirmishes are rather sore recollections." Sparrow dropped his eyes for a second, then looked to James almost challengingly. "Tell me, as a matter of historical interest: during that interval when you were in that person's employ, did the sod ever mention anythin' relevant to meself?"

"Nothing of a nonmilitary nature. It was he who informed me you'd reportedly been dispatched by Davy Jones."

The pointed scarf ends whipped, almost menacingly. "An' what was your reaction?"

"I regarded that intelligence with some skepticism- not unwarranted, it seems. So I was less than flabbergasted some months later, when further reports indicated you were, in fact, still among the living. Per that revelation, I was given the same orders as every other officer in the British fleet: Jack Sparrow was to be located, captured alive if at all possible, and delivered into Lord Beckett's personal custody as quickly as could be managed."

Jack's face twisted, as though catching a foul odor. "Any explanation fer why?"

"The official word was that you possessed information relevant to the massed pirate threat, of such vital importance that Beckett needed to personally oversee your interrogation." James scowled in turn. "As I recall, there were also a number of scurrilous rumors in circulation, regarding other intentions he might have towards you. Nothing novel about that. Any authority-figure as disliked as Beckett tends to attract such scuttlebutt, which usually has no grounds beyond spiteful imagination. But I am currently receiving the impression that you believe these rumors had some basis in fact."

Sparrow regarded the younger man piercingly. "I was in a position to know, wasn't I? An' can you discern any motive fer me to deceive you about it, this long after?"

"No, I can't." Norrington believed he'd learned to tell when Jack was being straightforward. "You are quite sure you made no misinterpretation?"

"Commodore, there are certain indicators which don't allow fer misinterpretation. Most of which I endured, through a mercifully brief, thoroughly unenjoyable incarceration in a Barbados gaol under Beckett's command." The dark-chocolate orbs smoldered. "But, 'tis far too fine a day to mar with such remembrances. If you'll excuse me fer just a minute..."

Sparrow sat down against the mast base, crossed his legs and laid his hands, palm up, on his knees. It was the same position James'd seen him assume on Isla Cruces. The former pirate deliberately shut his eyes, keeping still as any figurehead.

Norrington manipulated the tiller to keep the boat steady, pressing his lips as he reviewed his own impressions of Lord Cutler Beckett- as unnerving a man as he'd ever met. From their very first encounter, he'd sensed a ruthless quality in the diminutive aristocrat; a willingness to cross legal and moral boundaries to achieve his goals, with little hesitation and less regret. But James had not suspected Beckett of being lawless enough to aggressively pursue a completely unwilling... object of desire.

James grimaced. Neither had he thought a respected Lord of the Realm would be capable of ordering the murder a kindly governor. That had been a harsh education indeed.

Sparrow drew two deep breaths, opened his eyes and clambered back onto his bench. Looking far more at ease. "No cause at all, ta be dwellin' on it. That score's been settled, to my considerable satisfaction." He flashed a wicked grin.

/ 'I'll think about it later'- a defense the two of us employ regularly. It seems we both prefer to have a buffer; he from his past, I from my future, / pondered James.

"So, on to subject matter more in keepin' with our current pleasant circumstances. How goes yer readings of those 'Dummies' books I provided?"

James rolled his eyes. "I may never become accustomed to that series title."

"Now, Commodore, I've already explained. 'Tis not meant ta be insultin'; jus' indicates theer written for the elucidation an' education of folks with no previous knowledge of the subjects."

"Which, I don't deny, describes me. To respond to your inquiry; the volumes about electricity, genetics, wireless communications, and the American Civil War have been useful reading. However..." James arched one indignant eyebrow," I am still at a loss to understand why you included a volume on the subject of professional wrestling."

Jack was a portrait of helpful innocence. "That's jus' so you can hold yer own if it comes up in conversation."

"I'm not sure I'd care to participate in a discussion about such buffoonery."

"Don't underestimate it! 'Tis been said, to understand pro wrestlin' is to understand modern culture."

"Said by whom?"

"Well, by meself, anyways..."

As if in response to a nudge, a sudden gust bellied the jib and mainsail, whirling longish brown hair into both faces. The two seamen hastened to set sails and rudder; the Rum Burner soon regained her previous fleetness.

Jack shook his scarf back and enthusiastically resumed his serenade:

_"Every now and then, I feel the need to take to sea,  
To give myself to whining winds and just go sailing free,  
I only need to lay me down, breath so mild and then,  
The ocean's rhythm sweeps me up, and I'm a child again..."_

Norrington couldn't resist. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

Sparrow, bestowing an affectionate glower, continued unfazed:

_"And the ship is my bed, waves are my pillow,  
And the dark sky breathes, the sheets they all billow  
And I go sailing on, sailing on,  
I go sailing on my dreams!"_

The chorus, at least, really wasn't bad. As another leap of glittering drops drenched them both, James joined in:

_"The ship is my bed, waves are my pillow  
And the dark sky breathes, the sheets they all billow  
And I go sailing on, sailing on,  
I go sailing on my dreams!"_

---

FINIS

---

'Sailing On' Composers: Alan Menken and Dean Pitchford, ©1982


	30. Someone To Watch

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

James Norrington stands before the living-room mirror, intently studying his reflection. He's wearing his curled white Naval wig, and is schooling himself to view it as the world now does. Not as a badge of authority, nor an indicator of status, but simply a costume accessory... a somewhat comical historic anachronism. This perspective, he believes, is necessary to his process of assimilation.

He succeeds, but with no joy. Norrington has always derived a sense of accomplishment from wearing this gentlemanly symbol. Severing that long association is not easy, or painless.

Suppressing a sigh, he skims off the shiny white mass, turning it in his fingers as he ponders what to do with it now. A ritual disposal- burning, or burial- is tempting, but he decides against it. An authentic 18th century wig is of practical use to a reenactor. And he admits to a more personal reason; the possibility he may someday find a woman to whom he can reveal his full history... who just might be able to understand what this accessory once meant to him. For a few seconds, he fantasizes about such a lady- red haired, bearing resemblance to Meredith Chaucer- smiling as she appreciatively arranges the wig on his head. His lips curve, just a little.

Yes, he'll definitely keep it. But for now, it's time to put it away, and the hurricane-proof safe in the study seems an appropriate place. He must get the combination from Sparrow, before they disembark on their cruise to Europe.

Norrington glances to the darkened picture window, then the clock. Though it's fairly late, Jack keeps such irregular hours he could still be awake. The Commodore sets his headpiece on the padded couch back, and starts towards the master bedroom.

Sparrow's door is ajar, with no light coming out, but James can hear something within. As he nears, he's surprised to recognize distressed, repeated sounds, almost like sobs. Is the former pirate crying?

His last few steps are made in quiet haste. James peers into the moonlit room, sees Sparrow at the center of the mattress, half-covered, curled on his side like a cat. His hands are positioned before his chest, one palm-up, the other down. Both clenching spasmodically. Errant dreadlocks conceal most of his face, soft whimpers emerge from beneath them. So, James is not the only one who has a problem with nightmares.

The former Commodore uses a moment to decide whether his duties as bodyguard include defending his employer from this. Only a moment. He enters, carefully kneels on the mattress, sets a hand on Jack's shoulder. The sleeper flinches, an apprehensive grimace twisting his scarce-seen visage. Whatever he's dreaming about includes no expectation of succor.

With the lightest touch, Norrington brushes the tangled strands back from Sparrow's face, tucking them behind one ear. He leans close, speaks in a whispery voice, as he would to calm a distraught youngster. "Shhhhh. Hush, now... it's all right. You're all right, Jack. You're safe." As an afterthought, he adds, "You're not alone."

Almost unconsciously, his fingers tighten, gently kneading flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, pressing rhythmically. During his days as a Lieutenant, an insightful ship's surgeon taught him how to give a massage, so he might assist with the recovery of an injured shipmate. Doctor Phelps believed a patient's state of mind could affect his rate of recuperation- that the sense of well-being conveyed by a compassionate touch was conducive to the healing process.

Evidently, it's also an effective method of banishing nocturnal demons. As James' other hand begins stroking the back of Sparrow's neck, the frightened whines lessen, the twitching fingers gradually still. Norrington expands his ministrations, moving palms in soothing circles between the shoulder blades, watching as the tense face softens to childlike innocence.

An illusion, of course. James glances about the cluttered room, gaze lingering on the impressive sword collection mounted on the left wall. He can hardly believe all these riches were acquired through strictly honest means. Not by Captain Sparrow, former Pirate and present-day Rogue.

Even so, James finds himself reminded of another dark-maned creature... the first lion he ever saw, in the London Zoo. The great beast had been sound asleep, long tawny body stretched alongside the cage bars, powerful head pillowed on one foreleg. Older sister Rachel and younger brother Jacob found it disappointing, complaining that it wasn't doing anything, but eight-year-old James had been fascinated. Everything he'd read about lions described them as savage, murderous brutes. Yet this one looked inoffensive as a napping house cat.

The following day, he'd described this incongruity to his favorite tutor. Mr. Abbot had explained there was really no such thing as a wicked animal. When they killed, it was to keep themselves fed, not from any desire to hurt others. Animals couldn't even comprehend that they were causing hurt. Even the most bloodthirsty predator was actually an innocent being.

James wonders if something of this principle might apply to Sparrow. Not to the same degree, of course- Jack, being possessed of human intelligence, can't claim to be unaware of the harm he does. On the other hand, the man seems to lack any real malice. Perhaps he's simply never entirely outgrown his original street-urchin perspective: thievish behavior is essential to his survival, so he holds himself blameless for it.

If so, Jack's innocence is largely due to his uncanny resistance to mental maturation- the very aspect of his nature which has kept him 'young at heart' through several lifetimes. James ponders whether he ought to hope Sparrow will eventually grow up. And quickly decides that's a question he can't answer yet.

The pirate is now fully relaxed, breathing deep and even, his low snores similar to purring. Though James' task appears to be accomplished, he continues massaging the lean back, making quite certain the bad dreams are routed. His fingertips press against vague ridges in the skin. Lash scars. Though Jack claims they've been much reduced by the Fountain, the marks are still numerous enough to indicate he's been under more than one whip. Norrington does not know whether those floggings were merited or not- either way, it troubles him to contemplate how often Sparrow's been subjected to harsh treatment. The smaller man looks so vulnerable now, in that semi-fetal curl, under nothing but a crumpled sheet.

But so might even the vilest miscreant, in such a pose. James knows well, Sparrow is far more formidable than he appears. And also knows that that misimpression is a carefully crafted facade. At their very first encounter, Jack demonstrated how deftly he could trick opponents into underestimating his capacities. He's made such a fine art of it, he can maintain the deception even in his sleep. 'Seems the knave always has an ace up his sleeve, a blade in his boot, an outlandish escape-plan in his head. Small wonder he's managed to look after himself longer than anybody ever has... at least anybody known, James amends.

On the other hand, the ex-buccaneer is facing unprecedented threats in this technology-saturated age. The possibility of someone scientifically establishing his longevity, and subsequently using him as a lab animal, has never loomed so large.

Perhaps the vulnerability is no illusion.

James frowns. A disturbing possibility confronts him again, concerning those mysterious time-travelers. It has occurred to him, as perhaps it hasn't to Jack, that if they've been to the future, as well as the past, they must know how events are supposed to transpire from here. Might they have brought him- Norrington- to this era, precisely because they know Jack Sparrow has never been in greater need of a guardian?

Abruptly, the navyman's hands freeze in place. Some of his own words, spoken months (and centuries) ago, have suddenly returned to him. 'Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth, but never joined.'

"Good lord!" Norrington gapes down at that quintessential-scoundrel/ arrested-adolescent/ perpetual-irritant of a pirate. If he could see his own expression, he might describe it as "borderline aghast". Is it actually possible, that this is the one whose destiny shall be joined to his own...?

James stands up fast, giving his own temples a more vigorous rubbing. This is only a mind game, he firmly tells himself. It's quite late- at this hour even the most outlandish scenario can seem plausible. The clear light of morning shall soon banish this speculation to a distant corner of his mind where it belongs. Yes, of course it does.

The Commodore lowers his hands, staring down at the now-peaceful face. Recalling something Sparrow recently said, about the inadvisability of trying to interfere with prophesies.

Wise advice. Whatever will happen, will happen.

So Norrington focuses on the here and now. He's glad to have dispersed his companion's night terrors. And grateful that in just a couple days, they'll both be back at sea. That should ease their sleeping problems.

He shifts from foot to foot, not quite ready to leave. Absurdly, he's recalling a sentimental song, recently overheard on the Boyers' radio. For some reason, the lyrics stuck in his mind:

_'Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?  
There's a somebody I'm longing to see,  
I hope that he,  
Turns out to be,  
Someone who'll watch over me..._

_Won't you tell him please to put on some speed?  
Follow my lead,  
Oh, how I need,  
Someone to watch over me...'_

The navyman almost groans. Whether Jack Sparrow be lamb or lion, it shall be an Irony of mythological proportions, if keeping him safe turns out to be James Norrington's destiny.

---

FINIS

---

'Someone To Watch Over Me' lyrics by George Gershwin


	31. River Dance At Sea

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx_

The captain counted off his fingers, to make sure he didn't miss anyone.

"You may award full credibility to any information and advice you receive from Gus, Bryson, Garnet, Le Blanc, or Doug. Stewie also, provided he's not in one of his dislocated phases, but you can generally discern when he is. Judith's not the best source, bein' new here herself, but she'll not deceive you about what she does and doesn't know. Newman's the one you have to watch out for. He's liable to tell you, with a completely straight face, that the filter intake-valve is a device fer sexual stimulation. That's just his brand of humor."

"Really." Norrington regarded Sparrow keenly. "Is there any possibility he's descended from you?"

Jack's reply was unexpectedly somber. "None at all."

"Well, don't worry either way. I've had previous experience dealing with his type," James assured. Nothing was going to dampen his mood today.

He and Sparrow were conferring on the bow of the_ Charming Murderess_. A friendly headwind played with their hair, partly-cloudy sky glimmered above. Both men wore tee shirts. Jack's was black, sporting CAPTAIN in huge gold letters. Norrington's was light blue, displaying 'Be Nice To Me- I'm New Here' in uneven script. A gift from Sparrow, of course.

The 82-foot cruising yacht had disembarked from Kingston that morning. Norrington had already gotten used to the fore-to-aft wind direction, the odor of diesel fuel (no worse than bilge stench), and even to being a lowly midshipman again. That wasn't even his official title- this yacht lacked a formal ranking system. Crew members were classified as Deckhands or Engineers, but division of duties was flexible, for everybody needed to be capable of performing all the basic shipboard functions. An ideal environment in which to learn the essentials of modern seamanship.

Sparrow had explained to his crew that Norrington was "a really sharp bloke" who'd suffered serious head trauma in an auto crash. Though he was expected to fully recover, James still had memory gaps, so would occasionally need to have very obvious references, names, or objects explained to him. "But a single explanation should be all he'll require. Give the lad jus' a bit of time an' attention, an' he'll be sailing the _Murderess_ on his onesies."

Jack had added, the newcomer had never had much interest in spectator sports, TV shows or movies, but was an avid history buff; he could converse about eighteenth-century sailing as though he'd actually lived it. "An' he does know a bit about professional wrestling."

James intended to pay Sparrow back for that last item... later. Right now, he was just happy to be starting an extended sea voyage, with all it's ample learning opportunities. Becoming acquainted with his interesting shipmates was another intriguing prospect.

Jack detected his mood easily enough. "You seem to be getting along well with the _Murderess_, Mr. Norrington."

"I am, overall." James sent a glance aft, to where the chug of the engines was loudest. "Admittedly, I rather miss the sounds of rigging."

"As do I." That familiar faraway look crossed Sparrow's face. "On the positive side, I think you'll be impressed by the speed a motorized ship can maintain. Barring mishap..."

"A likelihood, with you aboard."

"... we'll be docking at the Thames estuary in about two weeks. Some of the crew'll be bunking on board, others'll be making onshore arrangements. I'll be stayin' at my aforementioned townhouse. There's room fer two, so you'll be welcome to join me."

Norrington kept his tone neutral. "I believe I shall, thank you. I'm most curious to have a look at your childhood residence."

As hoped, Sparrow couldn't entirely conceal his surprise, or annoyance. "I don't recall ever describing it as such."

"You didn't have to." Oh, this was definitely gratifying!

Sparrow sniffed. "Verra well, Mr. Norrington: I shall rise to the bait an' make inquiry as ta what process you employed to arrive at this assumption."

James likewise counted off his fingers. "First: you described this townhouse as 'an old building, bought on impulse.' Heaven knows your urge to amass objects would outdo any pack rat, but you seem more inhibited about acquiring real estate- were it otherwise, you'd own more than three houses. Your short-notice purchasing of this one reveals it has special meaning to you.

"Second: though you called it 'a place to rest your head', your familiarity with details like the behavior of the backyard birds, and the sun exposure, suggests you've spent longer periods there than overnight visits.

"Third: from your previous revelation about having a private tutor to acquaint you with classic literature, I deduce your family was well-off enough to afford a residence 'within walking distance of Hyde Park.' At least for an interval." The Commodore softened his tone. "Your lower-class accent and 'street smarts' indicate you've not spent your entire childhood in monied circumstances. And your eventual fall into piracy suggests you did not remain there. So I theorize your early fortunes underwent more than one reversal. I also suspect that consumption, aka tuberculosis, may have played a role in it, since conquest of that disease tops your list of modern medical achievements."

Jack looked sour, but nodded confirmation. "Well spotted, James. Y'know, there's a nineteenth-century author whose works you'd likely appreciate. One Arthur Conan Doyle."

"Ah yes- the creator of renowned fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. Having encountered numerous internet references to that iconic character, I considered it worth my time to read a posted transcript of one of Doyle's short stories. Which I did, indeed, enjoy."

"I suppose that was 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band'."

James' brows arched. "Correct. Might I know how...?"

"That tale involves Holmes and Watson savin' a fair damsel from a nasty demise. When you spoke of enjoyin' it, I recognized a chivalrous curving of yer lips," Jack explained, with a smug lip-curl of his own.

"Humph." Norrington didn't like to think he was easy to read. But then, it was Sparrow doing the reading, and that fox-eyed pirate knew him better than anybody alive.

"Would you care fer another round?" Jack invited. "You could supply me with a few facts, an' see what I manage ta deduce about yer own whelphood."

James detected real curiosity amidst his friend's playful words. "If you want to know something about that, you only need to ask me. I've no reason to conceal it from you."

"Oh. That won't be as much fun, but I suppose it'll save time." Turning to lean back against the deck rail, Jack inquired, "What aspects of your background would you care to divulge, then?"

Norrington likewise settled against the rail. "My father was Andrew James Norrington, a successful London wool merchant, who married Marie Sarah Draper, daughter of a respected mill-owner. I have... That is, I had, an older sister Rachel, younger brother Jacob, and younger sister Essie... Esther. My parents were good people, though neither had much to do with my upbringing. Mother was primarily occupied with raising her girls, while Father spent most of his time tending to business. The task of educating Jacob and myself was left primarily to a series of instructors. Father did make a point to hire the best available, being desirous that his sons should make something of themselves, and his daughters should marry well.

"My family owned three ships- two brigs and a sloop- but Father did not care for seafaring. He sailed only when his business transactions absolutely required it, and, to the best of my knowledge, never traveled any further than Dublin Ireland. In fact, that was the destination of the first shipboard voyage I ever made, at age ten. Father took me along on a trading venture aboard his largest brig, the _Linnet_. The purpose of this excursion was to acquaint me with every aspect of wool commerce- part of my training to become his business partner. But that voyage had another, quite unintended effect on me." James smiled down at the rushing green Atlantic. "I imagine you've experienced it as well."

"Aye, I have." Jack mirrored the same grin. "Nothin' like falling in love fer the first time, is there?"

"Indeed. From then on, I knew I wanted to pursue a career as a seaman. I did postpone telling Father, until an unexpected dip in our fortunes provided an 'opportune moment.'

"Eight months later, the _Linnet_, en route to Boston, was set upon by pirates. Captain Tearlach saw he was outgunned, so he surrendered and allowed them to seize the cargo, hoping to secure his men's safety. But the moment the raiders were back on their own ship, they fired a barrage on the _Linnet_. It killed five of her crew, including first mate George Evans, who'd befriended me on that earlier voyage. He was twenty three, and the sole supporter of a widowed mother." James couldn't help shooting an accusing glare at Jack. "You've been a practitioner of that profession. Perhaps you can explain what those bastards stood to gain from committing such unprovoked murders?"

Captain Sparrow had the grace to look, if not quite ashamed, at least regretful. "I'd guess, they were particularly 'wanted' fer some serious offense, so preferred not to have theer most-recent whereabouts reported. Not that I'd consider it sufficient justification! 'Twas always my view that a pirate who grants no quarter must have such a deficiency of strategic skills, he'd do well to reconsider his vocation." With a flamboyant hand gesture, Sparrow added, "Anyways, leavin' survivors in yer wake is essential fer buildin' a reputation, ain't it?"

"This lot had no concern about reputation, then. The _Linnet's_ remaining crewmen barely had time to get into longboats before their ship went down. By sheer luck, a Dutch freighter happened upon them two days later. They were taken back to London, where the Dutch captain made Father pay a hefty reimbursement for their transport before he'd release them.

"Between that, and the loss of our best ship, my family was in tight straits for a while. Not that we were actually poor (Rachel's oft-repeated complaint notwithstanding), but displaying our reduced circumstances was truly humiliating. One January incident, in particular, brought that home to me. I was taking an afternoon constitutional, wearing an overcoat I'd obviously outgrown, when I encountered a cluster of boyhood peers. Being short of anything better to do, they found sport in making extraordinarily unkind remarks about Father's inability to buy me a proper coat."

Norrington's cheeks reddened. "As you've experienced genuine impoverishment, I doubt you'd have found my situation particularly pitiable. But understand: I'd been raised to be a gentleman- to uphold certain standards of presentation and deportment. The sense of being unable to meet those standards, of failing my obligations to family and tradition, shamed me to the bone.

"I broke away and returned home, where I gathered my nerve and marched into Father's study. That's when I announced I was not going into the wool trade. It was my intent to enlist in the Royal Navy, where I could help rid the seas of pestilences who robbed honest merchants of their hard-won earnings." Recalling that benchmark act of audacity, Norrington sucked a breath. Sparrow, for once, offered no comment.

"I was braced for an explosive response, but there was none. Father made several inquires about whether I understood a sailor's life involves hard work and unavoidable hazards, before acquiescing. It seems he'd concluded some while ago that Jacob was the more business-minded of his sons. And certainly displayed a far superior talent for bookkeeping." James grinned ruefully. "After months of anxiety about this confrontation, I was almost disappointed by Father's ready acceptance. I recovered fast, though, when he proposed that next Spring I should join the crew of the _Serval_- his remaining brig- to begin my training in proper seamanship. I... there was never any moment when I felt more favorably disposed towards the man."

Jack nodded, recalling an equivalent incident with Teague. The one from which he'd walked away with a bright new coin winking on his bandanna.

"So the following March, I begin my apprenticeship on the _Serval_. That may have been the single most gratifying period of my life. In mere days, I felt fully at home on that vessel, and with the routines of sailing. The long working hours and harsh weathers were easy adjustments. Captain Drucker himself declared he'd never seen a lad learn the ropes any faster.

"This was also when my enmity towards pirates solidified. The _Serval's_ crew kept me well supplied with accounts of sensational crimes reportedly committed by buccaneers, and I had no difficulty believing any of them. Mother would have been scandalized by certain of the details they delighted in imparting to me." James gave his companion a sideways glance, but Sparrow was just listening attentively. To him, this was far more distant history.

"I spent most of the next four years employed on Father's merchant ships. A week after I turned sixteen, I fulfilled my ambition to join the Navy. That same year, Rachel married a nobleman, moved to his estate in Norwalk, and proceeded to produce as many grandchildren as our parents could..."

"Did you say Norwalk?"

"Yes. Is that significant?"

Sparrow waved off James' scrutiny, though his brow was still furrowed. "A vaguely possible possibly occurred to me, but 'tis of no immediate importance. My apologies fer interrupting- please go on."

"As you wish. Jacob continued to do well, learning the wool trade. When he came of age Father officially named him his business partner. Shortly afterwards, I was promoted to Lieutenant, and awarded a commission to defend the Crown's interests in the Caribbean. I shipped off to Jamaica aboard the H.M.S. _Dauntless_, where I made the acquaintance of the just-appointed Governor, Wetherby Swann, and his willful twelve-year-old daughter."

Jack brightened. "Liz told me about that! She said you came across like some avenging crusader, grimly determined to execute all the 'vile and dissolute' buccaneers."

"Her impression was accurate. I had requested that assignment because the Spanish Main afforded the most concentrated opportunities for pirate-hunting. Which I became quite adept at. You might recall the reputation I built for myself, over the next several years." Norrington's expression darkened. "That interval also included it's share of unhappy events. Two years into my tenure, I received most distressing news from London. A carriage collision had claimed the lives of both of my parents, and Essie. She was barely nineteen."

Jack respectfully inclined his head. "I take it she'd been yer favorite?"

"She had. Even an ocean away, I'd never outgrown the sense that I was responsible for protecting my little sister." James made a couple fast blinks.

"That tragedy severed my most important ties to England. I never did go back. I was still fond of Rachel and Jacob, but they had their own lives to lead; she raising her ever-growing brood, he attending to his inherited business. So, I threw myself even more fervently into the task of eradicating pirates. By the time of our first meeting, I was exchanging only a few missives per year with my siblings." Norrington sagged. "Which was no doubt a mercy on them. If we'd been closer, my subsequent disgrace would have afflicted them all the worse."

"Might've been less of a mercy on you, though," Jack reflected. "Havin' stronger family ties might've cushioned the fall a bit, when you lost the _Dauntless_. Mayhap you'd've returned to London, 'stead of washin' up on Tortuga's misbegotten shores."

"And so would not have become a rumpot deckhand, taking orders from bloody pirates. Nor encountered disembodied hearts, tentacle-faced sea legends or murderous fish-people. And would most certainly never've heard of DVDs, GPS, DNA or M&Ms." Norrington's gaze met Jack's without a trace of rancor. "I've spent considerable time pondering the 'what ifs,' Captain. I've come to the conclusion that things have turned out acceptably well for me."

"A most commendable attitude!" Sparrow pronounced. "Nothing to be gained from broodin' over past mistakes- much better ta take advantage of whatever circumstances you land in." Jack's eye strayed to a cabin window. "Speakin' of which..."

The ex-pirate moved a few paces aft, the better to peer through that window into the ship's lounge. Following his stare, James detected a figure in mint-green coveralls moving about the interior. Jack's mustache twitched mischievously. "Pardon me James, but, to quote the fictional personage I'd recently recommended, 'The game's afoot.'"

Sparrow took the shortest route into the lounge. Norrington decided to follow.

The green-clad figure turned out to be Garnet McMann, the brown-braided, strong-limbed Senior Deckhand, currently occupied with applying fresh slipcovers to all the lounge cushions. Her shipboard position was equivalent to that of Bosun; she was responsible for making sure everything that needed doing got done. And was notably good at it. Everybody on board, up to and including the Captain, regularly deferred to her authority.

Not that Jack looked inclined to do any such thing at the moment. He sidled across the room to the CD rack, removed a disk and slipped it into the player. James, who'd paused just inside the entrance, glimpsed the hand-scrawled title: 'River Dance'.

A pastoral flute-and-string tune sounded through the spacious lounge. The busy crewwoman narrowed her eyes, but displayed no other acknowledgment of Jack's presence until he strutted alongside and slipped both arms around her waist.

"Garnet, me precious jewel! Have I mentioned how much these months apart from your fair self have grieved my poor heart?"

James frowned in puzzlement. Garnet did possess a certain sturdy beauty, comparable to that of a freshly-groomed plow horse. But she was rather more... substantial, than the sort of lass Jack usually fancied, being half-a-head taller and notably heavier than he. Furthermore, Norrington had the distinct impression she was married to Gus, the ship's Chief Engineer.

Mrs. McMann slapped the top of Jack's head with a slipcover, though she made no other move to escape. "Don't start spewing your sweet-talk here, Captain Scoundrel! You know that doesn't work on me!"

"Awww, luv, inhalin' the fumes off that greasemonkey husband of yours has addled yer brain!" Sparrow pouted. "Verra well, then; perhaps an alternate tactic shall suffice."

The captain backed into the middle of the room, clamped elbows to his sides, and began agilely stepping in time to the music. The heels and toes of his boots beat the deck like a percussion instrument; his knees flicked up, coming level with his waist. Rather similar to a mode of dance James had witnessed in Barcelona. The music changed to a semi-plaintive violin melody.

Garnet eyed Jack, critical as a peahen assessing a peacock's display. "Not bad, Captain, but there's room for improvement. For one thing, you need to straighten those ankles..."

She was interrupted by a rapid pounding of large feet, ascending the starboard stairs. A big guy with cropped brown hair erupted into the lounge, angry eyes seeking out Sparrow.

"I thought I'd heard what I'd heard! Just what're you getting up to with my wife, you homewrecking runt?!"

Two more crewmen hurried in- Misters Bryson and Le Blanc, from Engineering and the Gallery- but they both kept out of the way. Garnet, seemingly unconcerned, just preened kittenishly as Jack, still stepping, draped an arm about her neck.

"'Tain't my fault the lady has taste, McMann. Can't hardly blame 'er for preferrin' a bloke what can actually dance!"

Gus went beet-faced. Norrington gaped incredulously- surely Jack wasn't deliberately trying to provoke a fight with this behemoth? If it came to that, James would be obliged to intervene- a prospect he didn't relish in the slightest.

"Insolent pipsqueak! I'll show you who can do what!" The big man tossed aside his oil-stained jacket, beefy hands fisting... but said fists jammed against his hips as he also began to dance. His sizable feet moved with surprising finesse.

"This'll just take a moment, dearie," Jack promised Garnet, before stalking up to Gus. The two males circled each other- a glowering, graceful ox facing a sly, nimble stag. The violin merrily quickened it's tempo; their feet matched it. Clearly moving to intimidate, but not about to come to blows. Not yet, anyway.

James looked to the other crewmen, reassured to see they were watching with amused familiarity. Norrington edged closer to Le Blanc. "Is this something they've done before?"

The Cajun chef nodded. "Oui, James. They do this at least once every cruise. Began with an argument over who's the better stepdancer- still haven't settled it. Getting an early start this trip. El Capitaine must be feeling fine!"

Much relieved, James eyed the spectacle. He couldn't decide which was more impressive, Jack's deft footwork or Gus' assertive stomping.

Mrs. McMann, in contrast, had a definite opinion. With a mighty roll of her eyes, she moved between the combatants and entwined her elbows through theirs, pulling them into line on either side. "Enough shilly-shallying, you great lunkheads! Seems I still have to show you how it's done."

Sudden drumbeats accelerated 'River Dance' yet again. If the males were an ox and deer, Garnet was a gazelle- her steps were light and blurringly fast. She executed precise forward kicks, toes gracefully pointed, rising so effortlessly she seemed barely attached to the deck. Jack and Gus exchanged sheepish glances behind her back, but didn't abandon their own efforts. Considering how variant their styles were, the threesome's dancing was surprisingly harmonious.

The gallery door flung open and a blonde teenage girl darted in. After one glance at the proceedings, she latched onto Gus' free arm and joined in. The big man regarded her moving feet with approval.

"You been taking lessons, Judith?"

"'Course! Can't let you guys have all the fun!" the youngster gushed. Her own stepping, though less practiced, was certainly enthusiastic.

'River Dance' was now being played by a full, lively orchestra. Doug, the sunny Jamaica deckhand, appeared from nowhere and joined the line beside Sparrow, calling an invitation to James.

"Come try it, mon! On this tub it's practically a job requirement!"

Norrington, having had no previous experience with this dance form, was hesitant. But to judge from Doug's blatantly Jamaican-influenced moves, the parameters were not exact. And if this would help him assimilate into the crew...

James approached Judith, who took his arm with unladylike eagerness. The dance line turned diagonally to accommodate the additional length. Norrington opted for a simple one-two one-two step pattern, reminding himself that nobody would be taking off points.

Square-faced Bryson and lean Le Blanc continued to just watch, though the latter did turn up the CD volume. 'River Dance' swelled to a cheerfully frenzied crescendo, twelve stomping feet providing the percussion. James dismissed any concern about how well he was doing. This was for fun, and everyone was certainly having that.

The exhilaration of the soundtrack, and the participants, reached a peak just as the music came to a crashing halt. The line broke apart, with much panting and grinning. Jack and Gus bestowed mock-punches on each other's shoulders.

"You just watch yerself next time, Captain," the big engineer growled.

"Whatdoya mean, 'next time'?" Sparrow flapped both arms. "I demand a rematch! Once more, from the beginning, mates!"

But Judith was already halfway through the gallery doors. "Can't- I have to get dinner!"

"And have you noticed which crew members are absent?" Bryson added darkly.

Jack glanced about, almost blanched. "Bloody hell- Newman and Stewie are runnin' this ship?! Everybody, back to post before we run aground!"

The crew scattered like a flock of startled partridges. "But we're over a hundred miles offshore," Norrington pointed out.

"You obviously don't know those two! To your station, Midshipman!" Jack ordered, as he sprinted for the bridge.

James obediently turned to follow Gus towards the descending stairs, pausing just long enough to accept a quick hair-tousle from Garnet.

"You're all right James!" she declared, with a horse-toothed grin.

The usually taciturn Bryson also expressed approval, as they proceeded down to the engine deck. "I believe you're going to fit right in with this shipload of lunatics, Mr. Norrington."

James wasn't sure whether to smile or cringe.

xxx

FINIS


	32. Garden Echoes

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

Norrington would be hard-pressed to explain why, despite the extensive changes, this city still felt like London. He was certain he'd know where he was, even if dropped unawares into the middle of it. The sense of place seemed to be embedded into his very neurons. Or something of that sort.

The former Commodore was making his way up a curved residential street, lined with middle-sized brick houses fronted with walled-in yards. His stride was long and carefree- knowing he could navigate a modern metropolis on his own was a solid confidence booster. A detailed street map, and his not-entirely-outmoded familiarity with London, had sufficed to keep him oriented. He hadn't once needed to check his back-up GPS device.

Jack might or might not have made it back before him. The ex-pirate had taken a separate route into town that morning, explaining he had to close some deal for which he did not require James' presence, and which James might prefer to remain uninvolved with. Responding to a subzero Commodorial glare, Sparrow had added he was not dealing in anything harmful. "The restrictions on selling Cuban cigars are entirely political- always have been. I'd be willin' to wager that ban'll be repealed within two decades, after which nobody will recall why it was ever deemed necessary."

"Why engage in illegal commerce at all, though? You've no need for additional money."

"Ah, James, that attitude explains why you washed out as a pirate. It ain't just about the profit. It's the chase!"

So Norrington had taken the opportunity to attend to personal business- paying respects at his family's burial plot- then do some leisurely sight-seeing. Now it was late afternoon and he was heading 'home', in plenty of time to prepare for their dinner engagement.

Reaching a remembered intersection, he turned left towards a row of modestly attractive townhouses. Sparrow's was halfway down; a flat-fronted three-story Palladian structure. The dark red brickwork was adorned with whitewashed cornices, window trim and pilasters, and a black metal fence along the base.

James climbed the short staircase, fished a key from his pocket and entered quietly- Jack might be taking an afternoon nap. The Commodore made his way up the narrow hall, past the small empty kitchen to the sitting room. This interior was graced with a large bay window (a feature so at variance with the architecture it must have been specially added), commanding an appealing view of the verdant backyard. A slumped figure was out there, seated on the back stoop. He'd have recognized Sparrow immediately, if not for the uncharacteristic stillness.

Moving slowly, Norrington leaned into the protruding window to get a side view. Jack was staring towards the back of the yard, his expression sunk into deep melancholy. That was even more unusual, but, knowing his history with this place, James could guess at the cause. As he continued to observe the oblivious pirate, an unprecedented event occurred. A single large tear emerged from Jack's eye, sliding unnoticed down the tanned cheek.

Abashed, Norrington backed away from the window, feeling like he'd intruded on something very private. He silently retraced his steps to the front door, which he again opened and shut, in a deliberately noisy manner.

"I'm home, Sparrow!" he called, coming down the hall a second time, heading for the back entrance. As expected, when he stepped outside Jack was smiling cheerfully. No trace of the tear remained.

"Greetings and solicitations, James! How did your family visit go?"

"As well as could be expected," the other replied, still standing. "I located my parents, Essie, and Jacob. My brother's wife and three sons are with him. As predicted, there was also a lost-at-sea marker for me."

Jack nodded approvingly. "Viewin' yer own grave's an interestin' experience, eh?"

"To say the least. Below that section, I counted three subsequent generations of Norringtons; as many as the plot could accommodate. The gardener advised me to check the newer cemeteries if I want to find any more-recent family members. But I think today's excursion shall suffice."

"How about yer boyhood dwelling?"

"I took a walk past it's former location. It's now occupied by an office building." Seeing Jack's sympathetic look, he added, "No rude shock, I assure you. I could hardly expect things to be unchanged after three centuries. I bought a fried fish lunch from a street vendor, caught a bus back to this neighborhood, and took a long stroll through Hyde Park. All of which I enjoyed. The citizen at Speakers Corner seemed quite irate about the price of petrol." He regarded Jack keenly. "And did your complete your business?"

Sparrow's hands fluttered like pennants. "All sewn up, you'll be glad ta hear. No more shady dealings on this trip."

"At least none planned," the younger man grumbled to himself.

"As we're both done with our respective tasks, we can stop by a pub before dinner," Jack offered, making as though to rise.

James deliberately lowered himself, sitting on the stoop beside him. "No need to do so on my account. I'd rather like to spend some time here."

Sparrow settled back down, looking slightly surprised. "If you'd really prefer that, James."

"I would. This is quite a pleasant place."

It was stating the obvious. The garden, enclosed within wall of that same red brick, was well-kept and inviting. A fieldstone walkway snaked up the center, bordered with narrow swaths of lawn, beyond which grew taller plants. Several kinds of flowers added color; purple and pink lupins, banks of yellow marigolds, rust-orange chrysanthemums, and indigo clock flowers entwined on white trellis. But the most abundant components were the variant patches of herbs, some growing in cloud-like mounds, others frilly or spiked. James could identify several by their scents alone; rosemary, cilantro, chives, sage, mint and basil. Blackbirds and sparrows provided melodic accompaniment.

Again, he noted some irregularities in the patches. The woman Jack employed to look after this place was allowed to take whatever seasonings she wanted for her own use. Herbs were meant to be eaten.

"Is this how it looked when you lived here?" James asked.

"Close to it. I recreated Mum's version as best I could, after rescuin' this row from 'development.' But some changes are hard to undo." Jack pointed to the left. "There used ta be a very branchy yew tree in that corner."

"And I suppose you used to climb it."

"Of course. 'Had to keep in practice fer the mainmasts."

"You could plant another. Unlike most people, you can expect to see it reach climbable size."

"I've considered doin' so. But I couldn't hope to replicate the shape."

"You won't be able to see the difference when you're sitting in it." James gestured towards an overhead windowsill, where a lone male sparrow poured out his ardor for a theoretical female. "And certain of the residents might appreciate a tree to perch on."

Jack considered. "I suppose Mum would approve. That lovelorn chap could well be descended from the same ones she used ta feed. 'Had a definite fondness fer birds, Mum did. Before you ask: that is, indeed, relevant to my choice of surname."

"Did you keep any other pets? Dogs, perhaps?"

"No, an' didn't want to. I never much cared fer 'em. All the canines I encountered as a whelp were unfriendly brutes, barking an' snarling at me from behind fences."

"That's regrettable. Three of my most cherished childhood friends were Greystoke, Donna and Max- two setters and a King Charles spaniel. Few humans can rival a dog for loyalty."

"I don't begrudge yer havin' a better introduction to 'em, James." Sparrow pressed his lips. "There have been a few mutts I've warmed up to, over the years. Karen Blixen's Scottish deerhound, Dusk, was an agreeable beastie. Bore some resemblance to yer jailhouse dog. Uncommonly good judge of character. Karen trusted him to discern whether a stranger at her door was a dangerous blaggard, or just a footsore traveler in need of rest an' liquid refreshment."

"Should I be aware who Karen Blixen is, or was?"

"She was a most admirable Danish baroness, who ran a coffee plantation in Kenya through the 1920s. That was the time an' place where I met her, bein' unexpectedly obliged to seek out her hospitality. A Lady, in the best sense of the word, but dependent on nobody. Reminded me of Liz. Verra fine storyteller, too! Wrote under the name Isak Dinesen. After her farmin' career failed, she penned 'Out Of Africa', an internationally successful memoir about her experiences there."

"And I suppose you're in it."

Jack smirked. "Why don't you find out fer yourself?"

James pretended to look pained. "Sparrow, if I try to read every book you recommend I'll not have time for anything else. You've already lauded 'Moby Dick', 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes', 'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea', 'Huckleberry Finn' and 'The Sun Also Rises'."

"I could list plenty more! 'Been a fair amount of scribblin' goin' on through the years you missed."

"It's occurred to me, you could add to it. Under a pseudonym. You do have interesting tales to tell."

It was Jack's turn to look pained. "You know why I can't risk it, mate. Even presented as fiction, theer's a chance somebody might recognize somethin' an' track me down."

"That is also regrettable. It seems a shame to make no use of your literary education."

Jack looked to the toes of his loafers, presently scraping moss from between the fieldstone cracks. "Becomin' a writer weren't actually the purpose. When Mum and I first moved here, it were a hard adjustment fer me, in some ways. Not that I minded havin' warm clothes an' enough to eat every day! But I really missed the freedom of the streets... odorous, hazard-strewn ways though they were. 'Twas only Mum's promise of much more better freedom in the future that persuaded me ta stay indoors an' pay attention to my lessons. She insisted, if I had proper learning, I could aspire to become a ship's officer. Even a Captain! I had a real chance to work my way into respectable society, since, unlike Uncle Matt, I was only half-coloured."

Jack somberly blew against his mustache. "Mum didn't live to see how badly I failed at that ambition... fallin' to piracy instead. Knowing how that would've grieved her was the one aspect I most regretted, fer a very long while. But I like ta think she'd be less disappointed about the long run."

There was a long moment of silence. An unseen lorry rumbled down an adjacent street.

Norrington moved closer, and Jack responded in his usual way; leaning back against the offered shoulder. James had found this overly familiar the first few times, but had grown accustomed to it.

"What was your mother like?" he asked.

"Looked a lot like me, only darker. A gypsy, as you may have heard, or deduced. Long shining black hair, beautiful lilting voice. Spoke three languages, wrote two. Died far too early. Of tuberculosis."

Sparrow shifted, nudging against James- exactly like a cat requesting a petting. Almost unconsciously, Norrington raised a hand to Jack's hair and began playing with it, rolling each matted lock in turn between his fingers. It felt much softer than it looked.

"Tell me more."

That seemed a fair exchange. Jack eased back into Norrington's touch, and, in a subdued voice, related the full story of a beautiful gypsy girl. Born and raised on a seaside farm in northwest India, where she'd been taught literacy, traditional dance, cooking with herbs, and storytelling. In her fifteenth year, her world crashed down around her- a sudden cyclone flattened the farmhouse, killing everyone inside except herself. She'd fallen between pillars, so survived, but was left with nothing to live on, and no family other than the older half-brother who'd gone to sea. Forced to revert to the wandering ways of her ancestors, she wound up in Madagascar, via means she'd never spoken of. A dockside fortune-teller's tent became her home and her living; there she plied her storytelling skills.

A tall, sullen privateer captain stepped inside one day, believing she was just another whore using fortune-teller's trappings as a shallow disguise. He learned better when she began relating his tale. Like her predecessor Scheherazade, her magical weaving of words charmed the predatory male from his ill intent. When he left, she had her payment, and her honor.

Next day he'd returned with more coin, requesting another yarn. And the next day, and the next. When the time came for his great ship to leave port, he asked her to accompany him to England to be his wife. She'd accepted joyfully, believing she'd finally achieved security, and love.

But cruel disillusionment awaited in the new country. Within minutes of arriving, she'd become brutally acquainted with the intractable bigotry of her in-laws. How it wounded her, to realize the captain had selected her as a gesture of defiance to his parents, as much as any appreciation for herself.

Injury followed insult. Mere hours after the wedding ceremony, her new husband was demoted from Nobleman's Son to Disowned Renegade. After they fled, he sank further, to Pirate. She eventually forgave him all, but their financial straits were harder to remedy.

She bore a lovely baby boy, whom she raised alone through his first seven years, housed in a Thames-side slum while her husband sought fortune at sea. Desperate to keep her little one fed and sheltered, in a society reluctant to hire 'coloureds', she'd resorted to fortunetelling, begging, and perhaps worse- another matter she never spoke of. Most devastating of all was the sickness which invaded her lungs, either from the odious river or the slums themselves. She grew weary from coughing, yet could not sleep, tormented by visions of horrendous fates engulfing her beautiful, orphaned child.

The worst did not happen. Her pirate husband finally returned- prison had been his delay. He brought the gold he'd promised, to gift his family with a warm safe home, abundant food, and learning for the boy.

Alas, she had only a few years among these comforts. Even as she tended her herbs and hearkened to the attending songbirds, the illness consumed her from the inside. Her anguished son was forced to watch as the disease withered her youth. She was bent, gray, and lame as an old woman, on the day her prodigal husband gathered her aboard his ship for a last ocean voyage.

She never saw her child, or land, again.

The sky had dimmed by the time Jack finished. Both men remained as they were, listening to the last bird calls of the day, and the more-raucous hum of evening traffic.

James continued toying with Jack's dreadlocks, gently tugging and plaiting, soothing the scalp. Rather late in the day, to offer comfort to a bereft twelve-year-old boy, but the former Commodore would give what he could. Sunset-orange streaks marked the western sky before he finally spoke.

"You should let your hair grow longer. Perhaps, weave in a bead or two."

"Fancy seein' it the way it used to look, do you?"

"Yes. I rather do."

Jack tilted his head back, regarding Norrington with seemingly guileless eyes. "James... do you like me?"

The fingers paused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean: aside from the instinctive protectiveness you extend ta nearly everyone, the natural camaraderie derived from our shared history an' situation, or any sense of gratitude... what do you think of me?"

Clearly, Sparrow was seeking a serious answer. James replied carefully.

"I think, you can be damned exasperating at times. But you can also be quite enjoyable company. I shall never approve of your penchant for less-than-legal activities, but concede your 'criminality' is far from the worst kind; you obviously prefer scheming to mayhem. I consider you far too libertine, but your zeal for life is truly enviable. You are a dishonest, self-seeking opportunist, but also possess the capacity to act with honor, courage and generosity.

"In summation... I do like you." Norrington's eye narrowed. "Is there any particular reason you're asking now?"

With some reluctance, Jack sat up, turning to face James. "Jus' wanted ta make sure ya wouldn't be repelled by a discovery I made today. As you may recall, during the crossing you made a remark which spiked my interest, 'bout yer familial connections. So, shortly after my 'business meeting', I did a spot of research at an institute what keeps extensive peerage records."

Jack extracted a paper sheet from his bluejeans pocket, which he unfolded and handed to James. It was a photocopied image of a genealogical tree. Studying the names, Norrington realized it depicted part of the lineage of a prominent Norwalk dynasty. A couple items had been circled with red ink- Jack pointed to one.

"This, if I'm not mistaken, is yer own sister Rachel."

James checked the connected male name. "That's correct. My parents' ambition for her was well fulfilled; she married as high as a merchant's daughter could possibly hope to. I think it was permitted only because her husband's oldest brother had already wed a fellow aristocrat, and sired an heir apparent."

Jack grimaced. "I know about the status of last-born sons. But here's the point of interest." His finger moved to a name one tier up. "This is Rachel's father-in-law. And this," sliding to the left, "is that gentleman's much-senior brother. And below, his brother's issue- all cousins-in-law to Rachel, and so yerself, though old enough ta be yer Da."

"I suppose so," James agreed, wondering where this was leading.

Jack tapped the circled name of the furthest-right cousin. "Note that this, the youngest son, has no recorded spouse or offspring. That can denote he died early, or indicate disownment."

"I am aware of this."

"Well, I know for a certainty which it is. As shall you, if you compare his name to one you heard jus' a few minutes ago."

James tilted the paper to the light, carefully read.

Blinked. Read it again.

"It's the same as... Are you saying this was your father?"

"None other. The bloke who changed his moniker to 'Edward Jonathan Teague'." Sparrow's twinkling eye met Norrington's. "Seems your sister's marriage made us in-laws. First cousins once removed, ta be specific."

"Assuming your didn't fictionalize your father's history," James countered, though not in an accusing tone.

The ex-buccaneer shrugged. "You can accept my word on that or not. Jus' thought I should tell you." But Norrington recognized that yearning look.

"I am inclined to accept it, simply because I can't see what you have to gain from inventing such a thing." James shook his head, as he re-folded the paper and handed it back. "Cousin to pirates... I hope Father never knew."

"'Could of been worse- you might've been linked to Beckett." As Jack stowed the sheet, he checked his wristwatch. "We should get ready to go. Don't want ta lose our reservation at this place. You've never tasted beef Wellington like theirs!"

"That's a safe assumption, since I've never eaten beef Wellington at all. It wasn't devised until after the Battle of Waterloo."

"I remember that! Ya know, I did play some small role in Mr. Wellington's victory there."

Norrington almost rolled his eyes, as they both got to their feet. "You have a yarn for every occasion, don't you?"

"Runs in the family, cousin. Mum was the same way." Jack opened the backdoor, looking thoughtfully to James. "She tended to judge people individually, so I think she'd've been happy ta have you fer a relative. 'Tis a bloody shame she never got a chance ta try."

He vanished within. James paused to take a final glance about the tragically beautiful garden, leafy banks glowing in the failing light. A puff of herb-scented breeze brushed his face, gently as a fond hand. As though to confirm Jack's statement.

"I think, I would have been glad to have you in my family, as well," James murmured, just in case.

Turning, he followed Sparrow inside.

---

FINIS

---


	33. Sympathy For The Devil's Lapdog

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

_xxx_

"I don't understand what the problem is, James. 'Tis been only a few hours since my last shower."

Norrington, clad in clean tan pajamas, glanced up from the bedroom floor where he was setting down sheets and blankets. "This is simply my preferred arrangement, seeing how you misrepresented the number of beds currently available in this domicile."

"Did not! It just slipped me mind that I'd given the other one away. But this un's easily adequate fer two." Jack spread his arms, emphasizing the width of the elegant four-poster he was currently sitting in. "Bein' a career sailor, you have to've double-bunked in narrower berths."

"Indeed. With gentlemen who habitually wore night shirts."

The pirate made a face. "Surly ya don't think I intend ta ravage you in yer sleep! Or, if I had such inclination, that one additional cloth layer would make any difference!"

"It's a matter of propriety, Sparrow. Now please do quiet down- I'm quite able to take care of this myself."

Scowling, Jack flopped down on the mattress, muttering the usual pejoratives about bloody uptight navymen.

His preparations complete, James moved to the wall and flipped off the electric lights. The large bedroom window emitted enough light from the street to illuminate a path to his 'pathetic excuse fer a bed.' Norrington sighed as he reclined against the familiar sensation of lightly cushioned boards- he'd been on the move all day and was honestly fatigued. But he'd barely settled in, when the noises began.

James frowned beneath closed lids. Those sounds were all too familiar; minute paws skittering, soft tapping of long bare tails, muffled squeaks. First inside the walls, then beside them, gradually moving into the room... below his feet, above his head, on either side...

...a swift prickling of tiny claws, running right across his chest!

James convulsed like a twanged bow string. "AaAWawwwH!"

A snarled oath spilled over the edge of the bed, closely followed by Sparrow's irate visage. "James, do get yer arse up here afore one o' those blighters decides ta find out what it tastes like! Once they've drawn blood theer's no tellin' what that could lead to... actually, theer is, an' you don't want to hang around fer it!"

The Commodore was already scrambling to join him. Jack threw back the bedclothes and slid over, giving the larger man ample space. Norrington pushed his legs under the covers, but was too agitated to recline. The pattering noises had retreated, their makers spooked by James' outburst, but that would only be temporary.

Jack spoke soothingly. "Theer now, you'll be fine if ya jus' lie down and relax. No need ta worry about further disturbances; I'm told my snorin's not verra loud."

"You failed to mention this house has a resident rodent population," Norrington accused.

"I figured you'd deduce that fer yerself, mate." If he'd sounded one iota more smug, James might have assaulted Jack's face with a pillow.

"You do know they can carry plague?"

"That would be the black rat- _Rattus rattus_. These are brown 'uns. _Rattus norvegicus_."

"Even so, why haven't you called in an exterminator?"

"Never perceived any necessity. Those beasties are jus' tryin' ta get by."

James glowered incredulously at his bunkmate. "You actually sympathize with these vermin!"

Sparrow shrugged one bare shoulder. "Give a moment's thought to theer situation, cousin. They're despised by virtually everyone, forced to live at the edges an' undersides of things, havin' ta scrounge fer every mouthful. Begrudged even the pittance they need ta stay alive. In a word: entirely similar to my own leaner years."

James' lip twitched. "That was a long time ago. You're wealthy now."

"Aye, fer the moment. Doesn't mean I'll always be. Economies are like lubber-sailed ships, James- prone ta sudden changes of course, even ruinous collisions against overlooked reefs. 'Seen it happen more 'en once. I've long since observed, the blokes who weather it best are the ones who weren't born into the upper stratas. An' haven't forgotten it." Even in the dim light, Sparrow's sapient expression showed plainly. That always meant he was speaking from experience too reliable to argue with.

"So, you permit rats to occupy your townhouse as a vital reminder?"

"That's about the size of it. Though I do set limits! Our accord is, in exchange fer bein' allowed use of the floor, they're to stay off the furniture. So don't be afeard to go to sleep, ol' Commodore. They won't bother you up here."

Norrington was skeptical, but did finally lie down- he couldn't deny this bed was more comfortable than the floorboards. And the now-resumed skitterings were no longer at face-level. Almost despite himself, James began to relax. He really must be tired... he was able to believe that, if any mortal could enforce such a deal, it was probably Jack Sparrow.

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Norrington," Jack whispered, snuggling into his pillow. A minute later he was demonstrating the accuracy of his earlier statement- his snoring was only a low rhythmic rumble, very reminiscent of a purring cat.

James' fading consciousness considered that rather ironic, coming from a man who'd called a truce with rodents.

xxx

**FINIS**


	34. Cloud On The Horizon

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

Even with his limited experience of 21st century living, James was aware his behavior was pure cliché. He'd just spent his first morning in Paris visiting the Eiffel Tower (Jack was right; that huge filigree-iron structure did look better in real life), and was now purchasing a postcard of it from a cart vendor by the open Champ de Mars.

He didn't mind a bit. It helped his sense of belonging in this world, to pursue the same activities a 'native' would.

Norrington sought out a vacant bench, and sat to dig Meredith Chaucer's address out of his wallet. He jotted this onto the card, smiling as he wrote a short, happy message. Meredith was a self-described 'paper junkie'; unless there was something urgent to convey, she preferred to correspond via old-fashioned handwritten mail. She and James had already exchanged several letters, and he'd enjoyed every one he'd received from her. Lively accounts of her designing assignments, embellished with droll little sketches, written in beautiful calligraphy. And always conveying best wishes for his speedy recovery. Whether this relationship developed further or not, James hoped they could at least continue being 'pen pals'.

His writing complete, Norrington headed east along the Avenue de Tourville- a busy city thoroughfare. He soon spotted a newspaper kiosk with a 'Timbres Pour La Vente' sign, and approached to purchase a stamp. There was one customer ahead of him; a rather short Anglo gent, buying a copy of the London Globe. As he unfolded it and moved from the counter, the fellow brushed against Norrington. "Pardon me."

"Quite all right." James purchased his stamp, stepped back from the kiosk, and nearly collided with the same customer. The man had only moved a step back from where they'd first bumped- he seemed entirely focused on his paper. Annoyed, Norrington gave the headlines a look. Nothing earthshaking there.

"Might I know what news item is of such riveting interest?"

The man answered in the same tone he'd use to pass on a weather forecast. "Apparently some poor bloke got run through the chest with a wooden spike. Luckily, he was transported three centuries forward in time, where the medical technology was sufficient to save his life."

Norrington froze, eyes snapping to the paper-reader's visage. The fellow was a textbook example of 'nondescript'; a fiftyish caucasian of average build and coloring. Gray tweed walking hat, short graying hair, plain tan coat. Face unexpressive, somewhat furrowed, devoid of any distinguishing features. James was reminded of something he'd read online: 'The most effective espionage agent is the guy who can't get waited on when he's the only person in the restaurant.'

"You're one of Jack's, acquaintances."

"Or someone in their employ. At the moment, you don't need to know which." The man looked towards the modest brasserie on the next corner. "I fancy taking a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?"

The man proceeded towards the uncrowded café. Norrington followed, pocketing stamp and card.

They seated themselves at a small outdoor table, apart from the rest. As they lifted menus, the man advised, "Try not to stare at me, James. We are on public view."

Norrington carefully turned his gaze to the beverage list. "Have you contacted me for a purpose?"

"Several. We thought we should provide you with evidence of our reality beyond Jack's say-so. And I wanted to commend you on the good progress you've made, adjusting to your new circumstances." The colorless eyes gave him a meaningful glance. "Also, we owe you an apology for transferring you from your natural time without prior contact. That's not our preferred procedure."

"I'm quite able to forgive that, sir," answered James, even as he processed the implication. / So, I'm not the only one they've ever relocated. /

"You may call me 'Mr. Murphy', if you'd prefer to have a name for me."

A youngish waitress with streaked blonde hair sashayed up to their table. "Bonjour, Monsieurs. Have you decided?"

Murphy extracted a phrase book from a coat pocket. "Je voudrais thé, s'il vous plaît. Earl gray, hot."

"Le chocolat chaud pour moi, s'il vous plaît," the taller man ordered.

The girl scribbled it down. "Très bon. Be back shortly, Monsieurs." She collected their menus and vanished inside.

James leaned closer to his dining companion. "There is something I'd like to know, Mr. Murphy. Did you... that is, your people, bring me into this era because your time-travel capacity informed you I should be here?"

"If you're asking whether we acted to bring about a predetermined future, the answer is no. Our perspective isn't as clear as that- not like peeking through a spy hole to see what's happening in the next room. It's more comparable to a blurry kaleidoscope, with a different scene in every section, and those subject to change. Extensive study is required, to begin to determine which should or shouldn't happen." The plain visage twitched. "Be thankful you're not burdened with it."

"The fact that you've followed up at all suggests you have some interest in what happens to us."

"We do. It's largely practical. I don't know whether you've observed it yet, but Jack Sparrow has a talent for identity-change which could be described as 'uncanny.' We aren't sure whether it's a craft honed by centuries of practice, or if he gets aid from some unconventional source. Either way, we've benefited from his skill on a previous occasion, and might well want to do so again."

"You did say 'largely'."

"We also feel some degree of responsibility for him."

"For a man with demonstrated ability to take care of himself, Sparrow seems to inspire a lot of that," James wryly observed.

"You probably understand why, as well as anyone could."

The waitress reappeared, setting down white cloth napkins, a plain teacup, and a coffee mug. Her customers spent a minute sipping their beverages before Norrington resumed the conversation.

"From what he's told me, Jack seems unaware you have any concern for his welfare."

"We've deliberately concealed that from him- we don't need him taking more chances than he already does. Which he might, if he thought he had allies poised to come to his rescue."

James eyed Murphy carefully. "Would you?"

"Possibly. It would depend on the exact circumstances." Murphy squeezed his tea bag against a spoon. "Obviously it would be preferable for him to avoid getting into trouble in the first place. Thus, it's in our interest for Jack to have a companion willing and able to watch his back."

"Hence your decision to resurrect me." Norrington tried to keep his tone neutral.

Murphy met the other's regard over his teacup rim. "No, James. We were certainly aware your personality made you a likely candidate for that role, but we aren't the ones who selected you. Jack did."

"Though only as a second choice," James commented, despite himself.

Murphy rebuked him mildly. "You can hardly fault him for his first choice. But know this: immediately after confirming Joshamee Gibbs was irretrievable, Jack named you. There was no third contender."

Norrington shifted, gave his chocolate a swirl. "Did he give any reason why?"

"I had the impression he was seizing a chance to reclaim a lost opportunity. Jack admires you very much. Perhaps more than he's ever admitted aloud."

"We may have something in common there." James took a final sip, licked foam from his lip. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

"One item. You should be aware Jack has enemies he does not suspect, beyond the abstract. Certain moneyed individuals believe immortals exist in this world, and are actively seeking them out, hoping to learn methods to expand their own lifespans. I trust you realize they're unlikely to confine themselves to polite questioning." Murphy drained his own cup. "This threat is not an immediate one- they've not learned Jack's name, or appearance. Nor yours. But they are on the hunt, so it would behoove you to be watchful."

There was another silence as a tall mustached man, leading two black poodles, passed close by their table.

"If Jack is going to require serious protection, perhaps he should engage somebody with proper training to be his bodyguard. My position is largely a make-work one," James admitted.

"Or, you could take some training yourself. Though it may not make much difference. What Jack really needs is somebody willing to stick by him, even when it becomes hazardous."

Norrington bristled at the implied challenge. "If avoiding hazards was my prime concern, I would have stayed in London to take over my father's wool business."

Murphy nodded approvingly. "Tell me, James, had your made any plans for your own future?"

"I had been considering the United States Coast Guard. Possibly the Investigative Service division, since I have some affinity for detective work."

"The USCG? Not Her Majesty's Coast Guard?"

"I'd prefer to remain in the vicinity of the Caribbean- I've come to regard that region as my home. And, having made a certain promise, I feel obliged to stay within visiting distance of Sparrow."

Murphy reclined against the metal chair back. "It's not widely known, but, as the Investigative division has a problem maintaining adequate manpower, they do have a 'fast track' training program for their more perspicacious cadets. It's rather expensive, being tailored to the individual, so requires a sponsor. We can arrange that."

The former Commodore stiffened. "With all due respect, sir, if my own merits are not sufficient to get me in, I'd rather not join up at all."

"You misunderstand, James. This program has higher admission standards, not lower ones. It's purpose is to minimize the preparation time for talented candidates. You'll receive all the required training, on a more concentrated schedule- sixteen months, rather than the standard three years. Do you believe you can handle that?"

Norrington looked away uneasily. "That's difficult to judge, considering I'm barely accustomed to the 21st century at all. I still make occasional errors." He pressed his lips, recalling an earlier incident- the whooping derision of that ill-mannered American tourist, declaring that even a Brit should know the 'Super Bowl' wasn't an item of tableware.

"All the more advantage to you, then. A tailored program will accomplish acclimation far more efficiently than a standardized one. With sufficient effort, you could qualify for active duty in less than two years. And as an Investigator, you'll be allowed the maximum degree of independence. There's hardly any better position from which to provide protection for the Caribbean citizenry. Jack Sparrow included."

It sparked some resentment to hear his future planned out for him. "The Coast Guard isn't actually my sole ambition. I've always planned to someday marry, and have children."

"We have no intention of interfering with that."

"Even if being 'burdened' with a family could compromise my ability to watch over an addled former pirate?"

Murphy addressed him gently. "You are not property, James. Not ours, not Jack's, not anybody's. It is entirely up to you, to decide how much you owe to gratitude. Or to friendship."

For some reason, having that matter placed squarely on his own lap didn't make James feel much better. He contemplated his crumpled napkin as the older man continued.

"It might be appropriate to point out; in regards to having time to accomplish your own goals, you do have special options."

"I know. I could regain the years I lost attending to Jack, by having the Fountain restore my youth. I..."

He was interrupted by the returning waitress. Murphy accepted her offer for a refill; James politely declined.

"I haven't decided whether to take advantage," James finished, as Murphy started on his second cup of tea. "I'm well aware, there's many who'd pay any price for that chance. But I, myself, have never seen anything fearful in the prospect of living a normal number of years. Or aging at the natural rate."

"If all humans were such as you, there'd be little need to keep the Aqua de Vida secret." Murphy regarded him with frank admiration. "That, too, is entirely your own decision. But I wasn't referring to extending your longevity or youth, so much as gaining sufficient time to get everything done that you wanted to."

"It might be easier for me to decide, if this referred-to threat had a foreseeable ending... if I knew there'd eventually come a day when I could, with clear conscience, relinquish my responsibilities to Jack and pursue my own life."

Murphy was looking apologetic again. "If I knew, I would tell you."

"I suppose a blurred kaleidoscope offers little certainty," James guessed. "Then, in regards to this more immediate concern: is there anything I should be looking out for?"

"Be very wary of anyone who seems interested in securing tissue or fluid samples, from either of you. Any fluid," Murphy emphasized.

"Sparrow's already impressed that upon me." James recalled the mini-lecture his friend had given him, on the use and importance of condoms:

"Whether indulging in a night's fancy, or building the foundation of a meaningful relationship, the rules are the same: always use one, always take it with you afterwards, an' always dispose of it in a completely irretrievable manner. No exceptions, James! That's an advisable habit fer any bloke- fer the likes of us, 'tis vital."

Norrington returned to the present. "Is there any method I can use to signal your people, should we ever need assistance?"

"Contact the same emergency authorities anyone else would. We're nothing close to being omnipotent, but we do try to keep track of events." Murphy finished his second cup, simultaneously checking his watch. "That covers the essentials. And I do have other things to attend to." He raised a hand to signal for the check. The waitress reappeared with the bill; each man paid his own share.

As they prepared to go their separate ways at the street corner, James asked, "Should I inform Jack about this encounter?"

"I'll leave that up to you. As I said, the danger is not immediate, so there's no reason not to enjoy the remainder of your stay in Paris. Good day to you, James Norrington."

The light changed and Murphy crossed, heading south without a backward glance. Norrington watched him out of sight, before continuing east, towards the high gilded dome of Les Invalides. He and Jack had agreed to meet outside the entrance gate at noon.

The Commodore arrived on time. Sparrow was ten minutes late, but easily spotted from a distance- still wearing that outlandish crimson shirt with the open collar. Not surprisingly, something had been added; his arm was draped over a comely young thing in a tailored jade frock.

As the couple approached, Norrington discreetly inspected the woman. Slim and coltish, short black hair, broad smile. He'd no time to take in more before Jack hailed him.

"Ah, there you are, James! May I introduce you to Amélie Tautou! Amélie, c'est mon ami et cousin-dans-loi- that stuffy bounder I may have mentioned."

"Enchanté! I am pleased to meet you, James!" Norrington shook her offered hand, felt the long nails on his wrist, wondered whether she might be trying to scrape off a skin sample...

"Mr. Norrington! Where are your manners?" Jack chided.

James flinched. "Je suis désolé- your pardon, Mademoiselle. I was, momentarily transfixed by your bracelet. I've never seen one quite like it."

That was taking a risk- so far as Norrington knew, that type of bracelet might be the commonest sort around. Fortunately, Amélie just touched the inlaid ebony bangle, beaming shyly. "Merci! I buy it in Kenya."

"Ah, Kenya! Lovely country, but even they can't match the scenery here!" Sparrow declared, giving the giggling girl a quick kiss.

James tried to compensate for his lapse by bestowing a gracious smile. "Indeed! By what bad luck did a charming fille like you come to be keeping company with such une petite fripouille?"

"We meet at the wait room, at the Dentiste."

Norrington's gaze snapped to Jack's. "'Dentist'? That's where you've been all morning?"

"Oui! For a good cause." Jack pulled back his lips, A familiar, and unexpected, array of gold caught the light.

The navyman almost rolled his eyes. "Whatever possessed you to get caps for perfectly sound teeth?"

"Nostalgia, mate! My very first visit to Paris was fer the purpose of gettin' me mouth repaired, by one Monsieur Pierre Fauchard. I decided to commemorate that event with a duplication. Not like theer's any chance of someone recognizin' Captain Sparrow from these, eh?"

Though he schooled his expression, James cringed within. He resolved to have firm words with Jack, very soon, about referring to his past within hearing of strangers. Not that Amélie showed any sign of noticing the oddities in that statement- she was tapping red fingernails against the glittering caps like a xylophone, laughing merrily. Though, of course, any competent spy would conceal their interest...

Norrington suppressed a sigh. Was this how it was going to be from now on- would he be regarding everyone who came near with such suspicion? Pretty mademoiselles, their own ship's crew, the Boyers... Meredith?

/ Murphy said we aren't in immediate danger, / he reminded himself. / I should try to relax while I still may. The time will come soon enough, to send up the spotters. /

Jack made a sweeping arm gesture. "What say you, we catch a cab to the 'Citrus Etoile', to break in these new choppers? An' then to the Moulin Rouge! Odds are good you can find a girl there, James. Even if you don't, I guarantee you'll enjoy the show!"

"You did not want to visit Les Invalides?" Amélie inquired.

Sparrow appreciatively eyed the shiny gilded dome. "'Tis pretty, but what I like best about it, I can see from here. Never thought much of Napoleon- that sod gave me no end of trouble!"

"History always was your worst subject," James interjected. "Though perhaps we should go in anyway, to make use of the toilettes. All of us," he emphasized.

Norrington wasn't going to postpone that talk with Jack for even one more minute.

---

FINIS

---

Translations:

Timbres Pour La Vente - Postage Stamps For Sale

Je voudrais thé, s'il vous plaît. - I would like tea, please.

Le chocolat chaud pour moi, s'il vous plaît. - Hot chocolate for me, please.

Très bon - Very good

c'est mon ami et cousin-dans-loi - this is my friend and cousin-in-law

Je suis désolé - I am sorry

Fille- Girl

Une petite fripouille- a little thieving monkey; a scoundrel

Toilettes - bathrooms

-

French dentist Pierre Fauchard (1678-1761), often referred to as 'the father of modern dentistry', developed one of the first reliable methods of fusing metal caps to damaged teeth. His 1728 book, 'Le Chirurgien Dentiste' ('The Surgeon Dentist') is widely regarded as the first completely scientific description of dentistry.


	35. Past Deeds

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

For the Black Pearl Sails prompt, Deed

--

_"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness." _

_"But it seems enough to condemn him."_

Recalling that exchange did not formerly make Norrington flinch to wakefulness. It does now.

The ex-Commodore shifts, staring across the scarce-lit interior to the other bed. He can see hair like charcoal smudges across the dusky pillow, and hear normal slow breathing. No bad dreams trouble Jack's sleep tonight.

James wonders: have Sparrow's nightmares ever involved rough hemp encircling his neck, sudden emptiness below his feet? They must have- the pirate has experienced it in waking reality. The terror of that instant, before the sword blade cut his fall, must have been vivid beyond any chance of forgetting... if not beyond chance of forgiving.

For it is a certainty Jack has forgiven it. Were it otherwise, the two of them wouldn't be here now- sharing a black-and-bronze hotel room, with a window view of the spotlit Arc de Triomphe.

Norrington settles again, willing his eyes to close. If there's any nagging conviction that amends must still be made, it's entirely on his own side. And he can do a better job of it after a proper night's rest.

Tomorrow, he resolves, Jack shall discover just how exemplary a massage James is capable of giving.

--

FINIS


	36. We Gather Together

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

----

"I appreciate your taking the trouble, Jack, but this really wasn't necessary."

"Of course it was! If yer going to hold United States citizenship- even dual citizenship- it's required that you make some observation of Thanksgiving. A national feast-day instituted by Abraham Lincoln hisself!"

"I suppose you gave him that idea."

"Alas, no. Our discussions generally centered around military stratagems, seein' how we were conductin' a war. But this is hardly the time or place to dwell on such unpleasantries, eh?"

"I suppose not... You know, the way you're ogling that table suggests you've prepared this repast for your own delectation, as much as mine."

"I'll freely admit to a partiality fer stuffed turkey accompanied by gravy, hot rolls an' stewed cranberries. Which shouldn't undercut yer own enjoyment of it."

"I'm sure it won't. You do realize, there's considerably more here than we can hope to eat at one sitting."

"That's as should be- feedin' on leftovers fer days afterwards is part of the tradition! But before we start, we should observe the pre-meal ritual of listing things to be thankful for."

"Does this recitation follow any specific format?"

"We jus' describe those events, situations or persons which've inspired personal gratitude over the past year. As the initiate, you're welcome ta take the first turn."

"All right. To start with the obvious; I'm grateful to have recovered from an injury which, under any normal circumstances, would have been lethal. I'm grateful that my recent application to the United States Coast Guard Academy has been accepted. I'm grateful for my ongoing correspondence with the delightfully articulate Miss Meredith Chaucer, and the enjoyable excursions which have supplied me with subject matter. I'm grateful I've been able to experience the music of Wolfgang Mozart, Aleksandr Borodin and Scott Joplin; the writings of Herman Melville, P.G. Wodehouse and Iris Murdoch; and the abundant varieties of eating-chocolate. I also owe thanks to the authors of the 'Dummies' instructional books, despite the off-putting title. And to the people who maintain the Google search engine."

"Anybody else?"

"Sorry, Jack- that's everyone I can think of offhand. Your turn, now."

"Humph. Well, I'm grateful my financial portfolio is sufficiently diverse ta weather a storm or two. I'm grateful this year's hurricane season was no worse 'en the average; that keeps down the property-insurance premiums. On a related topic, I'm grateful fer the unsatiated market for Cohiba cigars, an' my CPA's special bookkeepin' skills. I'm grateful I encountered that marvelously talented lass in Miami: Sally... or Sarah. Whichever! Also glad fer the continuing productivity of the Appleton Estate. Lastly, I'm grateful fer the recovery an' companionship of a certain honorable an' trustworthy former Commodore, even though he can be an insufferable, stuffy, stick-up-arse Naval prig."

"Oh, thank you very much!"

"Ah, that's much more better, James!"

"Fine. Can we eat now?"

"That is why we're gathered here. Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Mr. Norrington!"

(And the same to everyone else.)

----

FINIS

----

The Appleton Estate is a sugar plantation and distillery, located in Jamaica, which has been manufacturing rum since 1749.

Cohiba cigars are a premium brand, produced in Cuba. These command a very high black-market price, since American citizens can not legally buy them.

-

This is the closing excerpt from a 1863 _Proclamation of President Abraham Lincoln_:

"It has seemed to me fit and proper that (our country's blessings) should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and voice by the whole American people. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, and caused the seal of the United States to be affixed.

_Abraham Lincoln_

Done at the city of Washington, this third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the independence of the United States the eighty-eighth."


	37. God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen

_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney_

xxx

"I hope that was as good for you as it was fer me, James."

"I concede it was as hedonistically delightful as you promised, Jack. I've rarely yielded to temptation that willingly. Or savored the results so much."

"And bloody well about time! We should make a point of doin' this every Christmas."

Norrington and Sparrow were emerging onto East 60th Street, exiting the narrow and opulently decorated 'Serendipity 3' restaurant. They'd both just partaken of that establishment's signature dessert; the 'Frrozen Hot Chocolate'- a generous-sized cream-topped intensely-flavored chocolate slurry, notorious for reducing customers to states of blissful stupor. Norrington was fighting off that effect even now.

The former pirate's hand rose to hail a cab. James' reached to stay it. "No need for that. I'm in rather acute need of a constitutional."

Grinning, the smaller man tugged James to the right. "No problem, cousin. Central Park's thisaway."

They proceeded down the busy urban thoroughfare. Norrington tightened the hood of his navy-blue parka, noting the swirls of powdery snow skittering over the sidewalk. He marveled that Jack, in a boldly patterned black-and-red ski jacket, could stand to leave his head uncovered. Cold wind played with his elflocked hair- which, at James' suggestion, he'd allowed to grow longer than shoulder-length. Norrington had discarded any concern it would make Sparrow too conspicuous in New York City; 'dreds' and gold teeth were practically staid, compared to some other styles he'd observed here. That tall woman in the hooded robe fashioned from dyed bedsheets (or some such things) was just one example.

Jack regarded his companion merrily. "So, how do you like Winter in the northeastern United States?"

"I can tolerate it." He'd have to. Next month Norrington would begin his training at the US Coast Guard Academy, in New London Connecticut. One purpose of this holiday trip was to begin his adjustment to this region's decisively non-Caribbean climate. "I'm somewhat more concerned about handling conversations with classmates that stray into subjects relating to popular culture. But I'm making progress. By my estimate I have at least partial comprehension of about ninety-five percent of such references."

"An' the other five percent?"

"Those I can usually cover with polite nodding. I always try to look them up later." He glanced back towards the restaurant. "For instance, I overheard a comment in there about a 'Mr. Ed', which I was quite unable to fathom."

Jack smirked, not unkindly. "Mr. Ed was the title character in an early TV sitcom about a horse with the power of speech."

"Ah. Now it makes sense."

They crossed Fifth Avenue to the Park's southeastern entrance, and went in. Norrington liked the place even in it's current leafless condition. It was pleasingly similar to Hyde Park in London, except for sporting a greater abundance of large rocks. The two strolled along winding paved pathways, among the several ponds, small bridges and underpasses, working off their theobromine-induced lethargy. A number of other strollers were also there, some conversing in German or Japanese. Sparrow had said that Manhattan Island always got a major influx of visitors in December. Many came for one-day shopping excursions. Others, such as themselves, rented rooms to spend the holidays in the city.

Eventually James and Jack emerged from the same entrance. Norrington expected they'd turn right, towards the Plaza Hotel- that imposing green-roofed white box of a building where they were staying for the week. But Sparrow continued southward, past the rows of photo-sellers and horse-drawn cabs and into the deep concrete canyon of the shopping district. Norrington strode to catch up with him. "Where are we heading now?"

"Rockefeller Center. As mentioned, 'tis only a short walk from here."

"I thought our tickets were for the evening show."

"Aye, but there's something else to look at there. And I thought you might enjoy the en-route mercantile displays that Fifth Avenue is famous for. 'Tis all for the purpose of persuading folks to buy, which some consider disrespectful to the holiday's original meaning. On the plus side, they do put up some coruscatingly pretty spectacles!"

Norrington thought of remarking that probably sat well with Sparrow's priorities, but decided this wasn't an apt occasion for snark. Anyway, James couldn't be certain it was true. The ex-buccaneer sometimes revealed unexpected depths.

The first couple of blocks made it clear Jack hadn't been exaggerating. Shoppers were numerous and voluminous, what with their sizable bags and bulky winter wear. Recorded holiday songs provided constant background noise- usually more than one at a time. James would occasionally recognize a melody from his own century, but most were of more-recent origin, and all too many were treacly ditties about thumpity snowmen or red-nosed venison.

So he tried to distract himself by giving primary attention to the window displays. An amazing assortment of things glittered, flashed and moved; some overly-cute (teddy bears serenading and steering gondolas through a miniaturized Venice), or just peculiar (twirling dancers fashioned from jumbled coat hangers), but many were whimsical, festive, and sometimes eerily beautiful (a white satin dress on a white-haired mannequin accompanied by a snow-white peacock against a white-glitter background.) James was still struck by the numerous whole evergreen trees- usually artificial, occasionally real- always hung with abundances of shiny objects. Jack had explained that decorating conifers at Christmas was originally a German custom, which British monarch Queen Victoria had observed in deference to her German consort, Prince Albert. During her 1837-1901 reign the practice became popular throughout the English-speaking world. Nowhere more so than in 'the Colonies.'

James paused to study one particularly appealing example beside a menswear display; a dark green specimen decked with midnight-blue globes and white lace snowflakes between draped strings of silver beads. Admirably coordinated, with sufficient sparkle to please a pirate if Jack's stare was any indicator.

"I think we should accept the Plaza's offer to put a tree in our suite, if it isn't too late," James mentioned.

"Nowhere near too late! They can take care of it while we're attending the Radio City show. Would you prefer to have the installers hang the ornaments or leave 'em for us to do?"

"The latter. And I definitely want a real tree! There's no substitute for that fragrance." At Jack's quizzical look, Norrington elaborated. "When I was a boy, my family spent every Christmas at Uncle Daniel's country estate. One of the first things we'd do after arrival was go into the nearby woods to cut evergreen boughs to decorate the parlor. The smell of pine pitch always brings back agreeable memories of those visits."

"What else would you whelps get up to?"

"There were outdoor activities; sledding, sleigh rides... I first learned to skate on the little pond there. The maid always served us hot chocolate when we came in. After dark the whole family would play parlor games. On Christmas Day was the feast- roast goose with chestnuts, or boar's head. Macaroons, oranges, stockings full of..."

James hesitated, for it occurred to him this might sound tactless. Jack's childhood celebrations were unlikely to have included nearly so many amenities.

Sparrow apparently deduced his misgivings. "'Twas a favored day for me, too. So many churches'd be givin' away their bestest grub- white breads an' ginger cookies, sometimes even a bit of meat. Mum and I would go to as many giveaways as we could, collecting edibles at each stop. Come evenin' we'd sit down an' have our most fulsome meal of the year. Bein' able to eat 'til I was fit to burst was more pleasurable 'en anythin' I could've plucked from a stocking."

They were coming alongside a stoutish matron in a long black coat, clanging a small bell beside a suspended red kettle. James wordlessly took out his wallet and deposited every bill he had into the kettle. The woman's sweet-voiced "God bless you!" was soothing as any pine balm. Jack also made a contribution before they continued down the avenue.

"Speaking of churches, I assume they still conduct Christmas services?"

"That they do. Right theer's an establishment which does brisk business this season."

Jack pointed diagonally across the street. Norrington would not have expected such a building here: a full-sized neo-gothic cathedral. In almost any other location it would have loomed large- even here, dwarfed by all looming commerce structures, it managed to look impressive.

"That's the Cathedral of Saint Patrick. Papist, of course, but anyone's allowed ta enter so long as they show proper respect. I've observed all manner of folk stepping inside ta gape at the decor, or light a candle as a gesture of beseechment fer whatever cause concerns them... hedgin' theer bets, as it were." Sparrow spoke without disparagement, looking thoughtfully to James. "You never did mention yer own denominational leanings. Were you hankering to go to a Mass?"

"Not specifically. My parents were Quakers and I was raised one. I haven't kept to it as well as Mother would have preferred. Neither have I abandoned it," James explained. "As it happens, I have, twice, attended a Mass. I sneaked into one on a boyhood dare. From the way Father talked about Catholic ceremonies I was expecting an almost pagan spectacle- needless to say, I was sorely disappointed. I did think the incense smelled nice."

"I have some partiality fer it meself. An' the second time?"

"A shipmate invited me to attend Christmas Mass with him in Edinburgh. I decided, as every cleric in Christendom would be preaching on the same subject that day, it would make no difference which church I went to."

"Sounds reasonable ta me."

"I actually found that experience rather moving. Latin chants have definite grandeur." Norrington glanced at Jack, almost challengingly. "Dare I inquire how many church services you've been to?"

"More 'en you might suppose, mate. I've even conducted a few."

Something twanged in James' memory. "Whilst 'Impersonating a cleric of the Church of England'?"

Sparrow's reply was matter-of-fact. "It was a matter of survival, James. I had an urgent an' intractable need to keep out of sight of certain vindictive personages. 'Didn't do the vaguest harm ta anyone- a captain does have authority ta perform marriages. It did ruffle the feathers on a few church elders when my masquerade was discovered, but that probably did the old coots some good- must've been years since they'd experienced such a healthy excitation of the humours!"

"I feel unqualified to judge." James' eye was still on the spired cathedral, just beginning to fall in their wake.

"That's a right bonny piece of stonework, but the central thing I wanted to show you is just to our right." Jack guided James forwards and around a gray granite corner. "Worth the walk to have a gander at that, eh?"

James, halted in his tracks, could hardly disagree. "That's, certainly the largest one I've ever seen."

They were now standing at the top of a gently sloped pedestrian walkway, lined with storefronts and white wire angel figures. At the far end loomed a evergreen tree, tall as many a church, densely covered with thousands of multicolored lights and topped with a sparkling crystal star.

"There stands the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree- a New York City tradition since 1931. Folks come from all over ta see it."

The two proceeded down the walkway. Between them and the tree there was something like a wide moat, with a skating rink at the bottom. A large gilded statue of a floating male figure- Prometheus, to judge from his accoutrements- rose from a fountain between the rink and the evergreen's base. They reached the low granite barrier surrounding the moat and joined the crowd gazing up at the tree, and down at circling skaters. James' lips curled fondly- Uncle Daniel's pond had been just about this size.

"I deduce this also provokes agreeable memories."

"You deduce correctly. I'd suppose it's a given that you've tried ice skating sometime in the course of your considerable life span."

"Aye. Learned it in the Netherlands. When the canals froze in winter, skating 'em used ta be the only way folks could get around. Skating to get someplace is the version I like best, but goin' in circles isn't bad." Jack's eye twinkled. "They do rent skates here if yer of a mind ta join in."

"I, only have a few coins left on me."

"I'll make ye a loan. Or consider it an early Christmas gift."

"Thank you, Jack- I am of a mind."

They descended the stairs to the rental facility, and soon emerged onto the ice. James proceeded cautiously, keeping close to the transparent outer barrier for the first few circuits. Gradually his 'neural memory' awakened, firming his wobbling ankles, and he started to move with greater confidence. But he soon decided this not a good place to indulge in speed skating- there were too many parents leading small children, and adolescents talking on cell phones.

Jack required no transition period. The wiry pirate skated much as he walked; giving a deceptive impression of instability to disguise his excellent control. An unpracticed observer, noting how Sparrow kept eyeing every attractive woman on the ice, would marvel that he didn't slam into the sidelines. James, who knew better, concentrated on his own progress. It was a novel experience to be gliding under the great jeweled tree and the multiple red, green and golden flags flapping atop the moat's edge.

When Jack did have a near-collision it was, of course, with the most beautiful young lady there. The one with the white-blonde curls and short purple frock. James made a point of passing close enough to overhear Jack's flattering apologies, mingled with the girl's warbled assurance she was unhurt.

The navyman was annoyed by such juvenile tactics. Consequently he experienced a measure of schadenfreude on the next round, when he beheld Jack facing a probable comeuppance. Specifically; he was was nose-to-nose with a large and irate fellow, clutching the disconcerted girl to his side- very likely her 'significant other'.

Deciding an object lesson was in order, Norrington pretened not to notice Sparrow's pleading glance as he passed. His conscience tweaked him all the way around, though unnecessarily- when he next drew alongside the trio Jack was explaining earnestly, and the big man's ire had given way to perplexity. By the next pass, all three parties were smiling amicably.

Jack gave the couple a friendly wave, pushed off on his heel and swiftly skated to James' side. The expression he bestowed on Norrington was considerably less benevolent.

"Now that was a sorry excuse fer bodyguardin'- leavin' me ta confront that bruiser on me onesies!"

James was unapologetic. "In the first place: your sterling tongue was obviously adequate to diffuse the situation. In the second place: if you're going to make a point of provoking husbands and boyfriends to jealous rage you should plan on dealing with the consequences yourself."

"That weren't deliberate! The wench'd been skating solo fer the previous five minutes- how was I supposed to know she had an escort takin' a longer-'en-average bathroom break? Or that she'd neglect to mention that little detail upfront?" Jack complained. "An' he had no cause ta threaten grievous harm to my visage- I was only lookin' fer a comely lass ta skate alongside of. No offense, James, but you ain't quite so adept at brightenin' up the scenery."

"The scenery here is already as bright as anyone should require," James replied dryly, glancing up at the shimmering flags. "You really should be more careful about how you make new acquaintances."

Jack frowned suspiciously. "It occurs to me that you weren't so uptight about these things prior to our Parisian holiday. Yer not still sulkin' about Babette, are you?"

"No, I am not. Even in my randiest midshipman days the gratification my 'appetites' was never the driving force it apparently is with you."

"Then what has got ya edgy as a lubber on a rollin' sea?"

James pretended to be preoccupied with steering around a father supporting a small girl- actually he was giving himself time to think. This day had been a highly enjoyable up until now; he hesitated to mar it with possibly-distressing revelations. But if that's what it took to convince Jack to behave more prudently...

"I had a conversation in Paris which I failed to mention before. With a singularly non-distinct-looking gentleman in a gray tweed hat." He didn't look at Jack when he said it, not really wanting to see a pall falling over his companion's expression. But James could hear the other's blades stroking with marginally less exhilaration.

"I suppose he's still callin' himself 'Murphy'."

"That is how he introduced himself."

"'Always figured that were a ref to Murphy's Law- when that bloke shows up it's generally because something's gone wrong, or is threatening to. What was the bad news?"

"He delivered a warning. Apparently your concerns about discovery are not groundless. Certain money-endowed persons are seeking to confirm the existence of long-lived persons such as yourself, with the intent of gaining the same benefit."

"The one generally does accompany the other." Sparrow pursed his lips. "Did the helpful Mr. Murphy mention whether these persons have established any portion of my identity? Or yours?"

"According to him, no. At least not yet. But he advised us to keep a weather eye open."

Jack brightened. "Well, that's hardly a novel situation fer me. As you may recollect, back in our natural time my head bore a considerable price. That's what necessitated my evading navymen and bounty hunters fer so long- right up to the day I fabricated my first demise."

"But as there's been technological advances since then, I think it would be wise to..."

"... be a bit more inhibited about puttin' meself on display, or lettin' just anyone close quarters on me. I can do that an' still remain in open air, James. If I let anxiety keep me from livin' that'd be as bad as any other consequence. Would you've wanted to forgo this most enjoyable holiday excursion fer fear o' bein' mugged, or takin' a spill on the ice? 'Carpe diem', Mr. Norrington! I assume you know what that means."

"'Seize the day,'" the navyman dutifully translated.

"'Tis my theory that phrase was originally coined by a pirate. Livin' in the shadow of the gallows tends ta impart such an outlook." Noting how uneasy his cousin still looked, Jack tried to belay his worries. "I'm actually a lot more wary than I let on, James. Not likely I'd of lasted this long otherwise, savvy? So don't let yer innards get into a state. Theer's risk to any living- we seafarers know that better 'en most. Now if you'll please excuse me..."

Sparrow made a fast swoop to pluck a green mitten from the ice, then skillfully meandered to the base of the Prometheus statue to hand it to it's rightful owner; a teary young boy with rosy fingers. James sighed inwardly, telling himself he'd done what he could.

They continued skating with no further conversing on negative matters. Sparrow soon managed to introduce himself to a pretty-enough brunette in a camel-hair coat. Norrington kept an eye on them just long enough to establish this was an actual unaccompanied lady. Then he tried to relax and enjoy himself, and succeeded better than expected.

Finally the PA announced it was time for the Zamboni machine to take possession of the rink. After returning their equipment, Jack (trailed by James) escorted his new skating partner back up to 5th Avenue, where he bestowed a courtly kiss on her knuckles and thanked her for "the dance". The gratified woman sauntered off looking like her day had been made. Possibly even her week.

Sparrow rotated each shoulder in turn, grimacing. "I'd say I have honestly earned a lengthy session in the jacuzzi."

"I hope you can locate an empty one, or may heaven help the other guests."

"Surely I'm not as bad as that."

"You're every bit as bad as that. A variant of Boyle's law should be written about you: 'In any enclosed jacuzzi Jack Sparrow will expand to fill the space allotted to him, and also a great deal of the space not allotted to him.'"

Sparrow pouted. "Now wasn't that a hurtful thing to say! The least you could do ta make it up to me is impart the benefit of your admirably talented fingers." He mimicked some massaging motions.

"I'm experiencing some muscular fatigue myself. I'm sure the Plaza can provide you with a staff masseuse if you request one."

"But you do it so well, James. Just the way I like best!"

Norrington had to steel himself against Jack's infamous kicked-puppy-dog look. "We'll see. In either case, I'm not returning to the hotel quite yet. I wanted to make a stop in there." James indicated the cathedral across the street.

Sparrow grinned. "Good idea- that jus' might put you into a more charitable mood. Be seein' you later, cousin-in-law!" As he turned northwards, Jack sent a last comment over his shoulder. "I'll not object, should you take it into your head to light a candle fer the benefit of one or both of us."

James watched the swinging dreadlocks and dramatic jacket vanish among the moving crowd before making his own way across the avenue. He scaled the stone steps and passed between the cast-bronze doors, before slipped off his coat. The pillared, high-vaulted interior was similar to that of other cathedrals he'd visited in Europe. Minimal lighting set off the stained glass windows, including the front wall's magnificent rose panels. These were done largely in cobalt blue. The alter, at the end of the aisle between the pew rows, was white and gold under a filigree metal canopy.

James spent some minutes wandering and staring, being careful not to disturb the worshipers in the pews. Many of his fellow tourists were snapping photos, reading out of guide books or chatting on those ubiquitous cell phones. Others, gathered at the several shrines, were solemnly lighting disc-shaped candles in little amber glasses and adding them to the tiers. As he regarded the stacked rows of golden flames, each representing an individual hope, James recalled something Father had said years ago to him and Jacob:

"Although 'The Lord helps those who help themselves' is not scriptural, observation and experience both assure us of it's truth. God does not grant us- any of us- immunity from tribulation. What God offers is the fortitude to deal with it when it occurs. If we'll accept it."

Future tribulations did seem all too probable. Maybe severe ones.

Norrington located a 'neutral' tier, deposited his remaining coins into the donation slot, and lit his own little candle. The prayer he breathed over it was short and to the point, as Mother had taught him:

"Lord, whatever might befall in the coming year, may I be equal to the task of coping with it. May I prove to be a true friend and defender of... one of the most spirited and mischievous creatures ever to grace Your earth. Amen"

He carefully placed his candle amongst the others, watched it for a minute. Then he made a respectful bow towards the alter, replaced his parka, and left. Chill late-afternoon wind enveloped him again. Unexpectedly, his ear caught the words to a song from his childhood days:

_"The First Noel, the Angels did say,_  
_Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay,_  
_In fields where they lay keeping their sheep_  
_On a cold winter's night that was so deep..."_

Norrington eagerly made his way it's source. A small green-and-white clad chorale group was performing on a platform beside the same walkway he'd recently vacated. Joining the audience of gathered pedestrians, James listened all the way to the final verse:

_"Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!_  
_Born is the King of Israel!"_

The carolers accepted the glove-muffled applause, before beginning another piece. To James' delight, it was 'The Sussex Carol', a favorite of his younger sister Essie:

_"On Christmas night all Christians sing_  
_To hear the news the angels bring,_  
_On Christmas night all Christians sing_  
_To hear the news the angels bring,_  
_News of great joy, news of great mirth,_  
_News of our merciful King's birth!"_

Norrington couldn't resist joining in, singing the three remaining verses under his breath. The next song was unknown to him. It made no specific mention of Christmas, but had a truly joyful sound:

_"It's the spirit of the season_  
_You can feel it in the air!_  
_You can hear it if you listen_  
_Everywhere, so much care, like a prayer..._  
_Where'er it is you need to share it-_  
_It's the spirit of the season!_  
_You can hear it in the air!_

_People smile as they pass you by,_  
_The day will be here soon..._  
_Dreams are dancing in the children's eyes,_  
_Hearts are singing, bells are ringing too!_

_It's the spirit of the season_  
_Filling hearts with love and care!_  
_Like a shining star it glistens_  
_Everywhere, feel it there, like a prayer..._  
_Where'er it is you need to share it-_  
_It's the spirit of the season!_  
_It's the spirit of the season!_

_Snow is falling as you rush downtown,_  
_The city seems to glow..._  
_Laughter raises with the happy sounds,_  
_Hearts are singing, bells are ringing too!"_

At that moment, a sudden new brightness caught the navyman's eye. Huge lacy hexagonal shapes- no doubt meant to represent snowflakes- appeared on the facade of the wide building directly across the avenue.

As the choral moved on to a jaunty ballad about sleigh rides and a farmer's birthday party, James lingered to look at the 'snowflakes'. They shone ever more brightly as the sky dimmed, as did the wire angels and the Rockefeller tree. He would have regretted Jack's absence if he didn't know the ex-pirate would get a chance to see this display later, when they returned here for the eight o'clock Rockettes show.

The group began singing about night wind and a little lamb. James decided it was time to return to the hotel. He headed up the cheery avenue, lit by a different set of colors from every window. Smiling happily.

If there was time enough before dinner, he would indeed give his old friend that longed-for massage.

xxx

**FINIS**

xxx

_To save you a trip to the dictionary: 'theobromine' ('food of the gods') is the primary alkaloid component of cocoa and chocolate._

_'Schadenfreude' is enjoyment derived from another's misfortune (even James isn't entirely above that.)_

_'The First Noel'- English traditional, dating to the sixteenth century._

_'Sussex Carol'- Lyrics originally published by Irish bishop Luke Wadding (1588-1657)._

_'Spirit of the Season'- Lyrics by Alan Silvestri © 2004, from the soundtrack to 'The Polar Express'._

_For research purposes, I recently made a New York City excursion very similar to this, which included the consumption of a 'Frrozen (sic) Hot Chocolate'. __Oh, the sacrifices I make for art...!_


	38. Let Nothing You Dismay

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

"Wake up, James!"

The insistent words were accompanied by a sudden lurching sensation- for a second Norrington thought he was on rough seas, being summoned to deal with a shipboard emergency. He'd jerked himself halfway to vertical before a very un-nautical feature- a rectangular window with burgundy drapes- registered in his sight. Then he remembered where he was.

An instant later, the explanation for his bed's animated behavior came to him. James collapsed back onto the inadequate shelter of his pillow.

"What time is it?"

"It's Christmas!" This announcement was underscored by further bouncing on his mattress. "Come look at the tree, James!"

"We both had a long look at it last night."

"It wasn't Christmas then!"

Norrington growled in annoyance. He should have anticipated the Yuletide morning would bring Sparrow's most childish self to the fore.

"I shall get up, in exactly ten minutes. About the same time it shall take room service to bring up a cup of coffee."

"I've already ordered breakfast, with hot chocolates!"

"Call again, and change my beverage to coffee. I shall need the caffeine. The sooner you do this, the sooner I'll be willing to get up. So scoot!"

Jack obediently scampered off the bed and out of Norrington's room. The former Commodore determinedly kept his eyes closed... but that battle was already lost. A mere six minutes later, he sluggishly arose and stumbled towards the bathroom.

After seeing to the necessities, and a quick shave, he considered getting dressed. But that would take too long- an excited Jack Sparrow was best not left unattended in any space containing breakables. He slipped on his robe- made of the same wine-red velvet as the drapes- and proceeded to their suite's main interior.

His first glimpse of the room improved his mood. The gas fireplace was already on, as were the myriad lights bedecking their Christmas tree. The scotch pine was of modest size- it's glittery golden star was barely higher than James' head- but well shaped, fluffy and fragrant. Considering it was his first attempt, Norrington thought he'd done a commendable job of decorating it. He'd evenly arranged the several strings of tiny white electric lights, followed by silvery-white garlands, a whole spectrum of colored glass globes, and faux gingerbread men (with Sparrow in the vicinity, real gingerbread men would have had an unacceptably short life expectancy.)

Enticing scents of fried ham and cinnamon rolls told him breakfast had arrived. Jack, in a forest-green velvet robe, was arranging the tray contents on the small table beside the largest window. James approached, eyeing the tall, cream-topped mug with suspicion. "That's coffee?"

"Much more better- I ordered you a mocha!"

"Did you." James took a small sip, then a larger one. "And very good mocha it is."

"Aye. Stimulatin' effect of coffee, flavor of cacao. The Plaza ain't known fer bein' stingy with grub!" Sparrow was happily spiking his own hot chocolate with a generous splash of rum from the mini bar.

Norrington took a seat, and they both tucked in. Jack ate fast, his gaze continuously straying to the tree, where several bright parcels sheltered like chicks under a hen. Norrington had a preposterous thought. When Sparrow was in this mood, he reminded James of nobody so much as...

His fork paused, halfway to his mouth. It seemed utterly absurd to compare his innocent little sister with this three-centuries-old libertine.... yet, the similarity was plain. Essie had been a merry, willful, brown-curl-topped pixie, eager to go everywhere and do everything. Sometimes exasperating, frequently exhausting, but much more fun to be with than oh-so-ladylike Rachel, or ever-prudent Jacob.

/ Perhaps that's part of the reason I feel obligated to protect Jack? Could I be trying to compensate for my failure to do as much for Essie? /

But James had always known that guilt was irrational. He couldn't have predicted or prevented that carriage crash if he'd stayed in London, any more than he had from Port Royal. Norrington turned his attention back to the excellent ham, resolving not to think about that on what should be a joyful day.

Sparrow quickly downed his repast and scurried to the tree base, rocking impatiently while his companion finished at a more civilized rate. James finally pushed his plate aside and joined Jack on the floor. The thick olive-and-saffron patterned carpet was more comfortable than many a mattress he'd known.

"Gift baskets first!" the pirate gleefully announced.

There were two of these, shrouded in rustling tissue paper, from the crews of the Lady Buccaneer and the Charming Murderess. The Lady's well-heeled staff had supplied a woven-metal basket, containing a bottle of premium-quality rum for Sparrow, a box of Belgium truffles for Norrington, four jars of gourmet condiments, packets of flavored cocoa mix, and several DVDs: 'Citizen Kane', 'The Godfather', 'Casablanca', 'La Dolce Vita', and 'It's A Wonderful Life'. All classics that James should get to know, Jack pronounced. The last was a holiday favorite which they could watch together before the day was out.

The wicker-cradled offerings from the Murderess' crew were less tony, but thoughtfully chosen; a less-expensive rum brand (which Jack seemed just as glad to get), two jumbo bags of M&Ms, three Calypso-music CDs, a bottle of Mr. Le Blanc's special hot sauce, and a generous Tupperware cylinder full of Garnet's shortbread cookies and Judith's maple-pecan fudge. James had to restrain Sparrow from gobbling the latter on the spot.

Next, they opened the big square box from the Boyers. Amidst a blizzard of shredded green paper and styrofoam peanuts, Jack extracted a pair of flat metal objects. Wall hangings, fourteen inches across- curled lizards with spiral tails and splayed round toes. Both were whimsically painted with bold-colored bands; one scarlet and burnt-orange with yellow borders, the other aqua and cornflower-blue with cream borders.

"Geckos! It's a Haitian folk art, James. Folks cut 'em from scrap metal sheets and paint 'em- no two exactly the same. Supposed ta be good luck." Impatient to see how they looked, Jack took down a pair of floral etchings by the fireplace, and hung the lizards from their hooks. With their big round eyes, the creatures seemed to be regarding each other with astonishment.

Sparrow stepped back to look, grinning from ear to ear. "That's jus' what this place needed- a touch of the tropics! Which one do you fancy?"

"The blue one."

"Then by all means, take it with you to New London! 'Twill impart a bit of warmth to yer quarters."

Which may well have been Ayida Boyer's intention- Norrington noticed his chosen lizard had emerald-green eyes, while the other's were dark brown. He happily imagined her, and all Jack's employees, opening their Christmas bonus cards this morn. Sparrow sometimes displayed reluctance to part with physical cash, but was less inhibited about being generous with checks, which he seemed to regard as something other than 'real' money.

James' present from Meredith, still in it's yellow mailing envelope, turned out to be a framed pen-and-ink sketch of himself and Jack aboard the Lady Buccaneer. Both were in costume, standing at the helm, one hand apiece gripping the wheel spokes. But while bewigged James stood erect, gazing nobly forward, Jack's posture was crouched, with one eye scrunched shut and the other staring intently through a spyglass. The curl of his mouth suggested he might be peeking at something he shouldn't.

Jack studied the image critically. "Surely my face isn't that pinched!"

"This is a caricature. It's supposed to be distorted."

"Seems ta me she didn't distort your own visage nearly so much."

"Because she likes me best." James took down another painting, across from the geckos, and hung the sketch in it's place. "This will look fine in the Lady Buccaneer's great cabin."

Sparrow was still eyeing the work with mixed feelings. "Ms Chaucer's a cheeky wench. Though I do give her credit fer providin' something personal. I hope you reciprocated appropriately?"

"I sent Meredith a souvenir tee-shirt from Paris. It would be inappropriate for me to give her anything costly at this point."

"Was it a nice tee-shirt, at least?"

"I though so. A white-on-black silhouette of the Eiffel Tower."

"Sounds adequate. But I hope you got me somethin' better!" The four remaining parcels were their gifts to each other, and Sparrow was squirming with anticipation.

Norrington calmly resumed his seat beside the tree. "'Useful' or 'Useless' presents first?"

"Useful! Save the best fer last." Jack reached for the small sapphire box with the silver cluster bow on top, and handed it to his friend. "Fer you!"

As James took the box, he heard something jingle within. It turned out to contain a brass key ring, strung with two keys and a leather coin-purse fob.

"For yer new Mustang- the automotive sort, not the equine! Navy blue, ta coordinate with your vocation. Waiting in the hotel car park even as we speak!"

"Thank you very much, but unless it comes with a chauffeur, I won't get much use from it."

"Check inside the fob, lad." Norrington did, extracting a folded paper sheet, which he smoothed out and read. "'Manhattan Express Driving School'?"

Sparrow nodded with vigor. "'Tis a gift certificate fer lessons! I figured it'd be burdensome for you ta try ta learn to drive whilst takin' Academy classes. But you've a few free weeks yet, so you can get your training here... no, not on those streets!" Jack hastily added, noting James' understandably apprehensive glance towards the window, and the intimidating traffic beyond. "This school has indoor facilities. They'll start you in a simulator with projector screen, and, once your reflexes are up to par, put you in a real car on theer enclosed training course. You needn't be embarrassed ta admit you've not learned to drive in thirty-plus years; latecomers are their specialty. When a New Yorker acquires a sudden need to qualify fer a driver's license- because theer employer's transferred 'em to a less-mass-transited region of the country, for instance- the Express school has a training program ta get 'em up to speed in under a month. Won't do fer you to arrive at the USCG Academy sans wheels, now would it?"

Norrington's hand closed warmly around the keys. "This is a 'Useful' gift in the very best sense, Jack. I'm afraid my own offering is going to look paltry by..."

"Now James, we agreed we weren't going ta compare price tags. Jus' give me my present!" Sparrow bounced demandingly.

Norrington obediently handed his friend a flat parcel, wrapped in flashy iridescent paper with a wide red-satin ribbon. The eager recipient pulled off the ribbon, tore the box open, and lifted out two garments; loose-fitting trousers and a front-buttoned shirt, both made of shiny gold fabric with coffee-brown piping. "What're these?"

"They're called 'pajamas'. I thought you might find them more appealing if I got them in your favorite color."

Jack regarded James wryly. "Still tryin' ta civilize me, Mr. Norrington?"

"I do enjoy a challenge. Why don't you establish whether they fit?"

Sparrow agreeably trotted into his own bedroom. James kept himself busy picking up styrofoam 'til Jack emerged, gold-clad and regal, strutting that self-important 'runway walk' he'd claimed to've learned during a short modeling career. As he turned in haughty circles before James, the navyman nodded with satisfaction.

"They look fine on you, Sparrow. You should wear pajamas regularly."

Jack held the snooty expression just a moment longer, before flopping playfully back to the floor. "Now for the Useless presents. You first!"

Norrington obligingly tugged the largest item from beneath the tree; a long narrow box, festooned with rose-cheeked skiing Santas. James suspected those were relevant to the contents- he had expressed some interest in learning to ski.

Sparrow made sure to position himself where he could watch the ex-Commodore's face, as he skimmed off the colorful paper and removed the lid. His response was as stunned as Jack'd hoped for; James looked like he'd just walked into an invisible wall.

"Where did you get this?" he managed to ask.

"'Twere a parting gift from William Turner. He handed it to me jus' before he an' Liz slipped anchorage fer the last time." For some seconds the pirate seemed lost in thought. "Been keepin' it on me bedroom wall, along w' all the others. I guess you never examined 'em close enough ta recognize it. I would've given it to you sooner, but I thought 'twould be apt ta do so on the Yule."

"If Will wanted you to have it, I can not..."

"Cousin, I'm sure dear William would've returned this to you hisself, if he'd had any chance to. 'Twas you he made it for, an' you who should be in possession of it." He gave the box a little push. "Go on, mate. Reclaim what's yours."

It felt like a dream become reality. James gripped the familiar handle, with it's gold filigree inlay, and drew bright steel from the ancient scabbard. He stood, raising the sword above eye level. Starry Christmas-tree lights glinted off the smooth metal, flashing tiny smiles of welcome, remembrance and redemption.

How many pivotal events of his life had he witnessed from over the length of this blade? His very first encounter with Jack Sparrow, pressing the sharp tip to his throat. That desperate battle against living skeletons on the deck of his poor Dauntless. The false reclaiming of his honor, in Beckett's office. And the true one, when he made his final answer to Davy Jones.

"Thank you, Sparrow." Terribly inadequate, but all he could say.

James carefully set the precious sword back into the lined container, before he presented the final parcel to Jack- a shiny purple box, of a size and shape commonly associated with wristwatches. Jack opened it, to find a small long-handled hairbrush/ comb, several red elastic bands, and a tiny clear plastic bag. Within the bag were three chickpea-sized spheres, pierced by wide holes.

Sparrow poured the spheres into his palm and pushed them about, intrigued as a cat. They looked to be stones of three different colors; mottled tan, pale gray, and greenish. "What are these?"

"Ordinary pebbles, with significant origins. I picked them up in Hyde Park in London," James pointed to the gray bead, "the Le Bois park in Paris," indicating the green, "and Central Park here. Then I located a gem-and-mineral shop on 47th Street, where I had them shaped and drilled to make hair beads."

Jack was disproportionately pleased. "Most thoughtful of you, Commodore!"

With a flourish, Norrington lifted the little brush from the box. "With your kind permission, I shall apply them now."

"Permission granted! But let's get off the floor." Sparrow scrambled onto the ivory couch and knelt, gracefully tucking his legs beneath him. He was grinning- the comparison refused to be denied- just the way Essie used to when she was expecting a treat.

James seated himself to face him. After due consideration, he lifted a lock from Jack's left temple and began to groom it.

"You've a lovely touch. Ain't everyone who can get out the tangles without yanking."

"So I've been told. When I was a midshipman, and we had to assist each other preparing for an inspection, I was always in demand for hair-braiding. Mother taught me so I could help get Essie ready for Meetings. I was the only one of her siblings who could persuade her to hold still." James sighed within, reminding himself that, by now, she'd be dead in any case.

He divided the combed lock into three parts, strung the gray bead onto one, began plaiting. Jack shut his eyes, the better to savor the pleasurable tugs. The other two beads were soon added. Norrington braided the full length of the lock, securing the ends with one of the red elastics. Sparrow fingered the result with the knowing touch of a connoisseur.

"Very professional! Madame Genet couldn't of done better."

"And who is Madame Genet?"

"No one famous. An admirable hairdresser of my past acquaintanceship." Jack indicated his right temple. "Perhaps, fer purposes of symmetry, you could do one on this side too?"

Nodding amiably, James proceeded to tease out and comb another lock. When that braid was done, Sparrow coaxed him into doing two more. After fastening the fourth braid, Norrington gently gripped Jack's jaw and turned his head from side to side. "There- I'd call that a reasonable distribution of ballast."

Sparrow reached to lay his own fingers across James', his expression wistful. "Don't know if I mentioned it, but I'm going to miss you when you're attending Academy, ol' Commodore."

Norrington returned the affectionate grip. "At least I'll be there for a shorter while than usual."

"After which you'll be busy playing lawman."

"Yes, I will. Your 'little boy' has to grow up, Jack. But I'll visit when I can. I gave you my word on that. Hmmm..." The navyman arose, moved behind Sparrow, sat again. "I think there's room for another one here."

Sparrow purred with enjoyment as his mane was carefully brushed. Finally satisfied, James gathered the mass together at the back of Jack's head, and began to plait a single thick braid.

"Much appreciated, James Lysander Norrington."

The attentive fingers stilled for a second. "When did you learn my middle name?"

"You let it slip one evenin' on the Pearl, when you were a few sheets to the wind." Jack hastened on- he doubted James would care to dwell on that nadir of his life. "I must say, 'tis not a very Quakeresque moniker."

"Which is why it's in the middle, rather than first. The family tradition of bestowing 'Lysander' on the eldest son predates Quakerism. It goes back to the 1400s, and the Battle of Agincourt- that's the conflict mentioned in Shakespeare's 'Henry V'."

"Aye. I know my British history that well."

"Supposedly, an ancestor of mine distinguished himself there." James paused to give the lower half of the strands some additional combing. "At a crucial point in the fighting, Lysander Norrington leapt to take a fatal arrow, just as it was about to pierce King Henry."

"Did he really!"

"At least according to our family lore. Though it may not have been deliberate. Lysander might simply have moved into that spot at a singularly inopportune moment... inopportune for him, anyway. There's no telling how much was fabricated to console his grieving widow and sons." Norrington resumed plaiting the mane. "Having never located any historical confirmation of this event, I don't know which account, if either, is true. But of course Uncle Daniel Lysander preferred to tell the heroic version."

"Understandable- makes a better yarn. An' I, fer one, would place a wager on it's bein' so. It explains a lot about his Commodorial descendant."

"Perhaps. Certainly that story gave me something to live up to... There, that's about right." James used the final elastic to secure the large braid. "And as a finishing touch..." James reached to retrieve the discarded crimson ribbon from the floor. He carefully draped this across Jack's forehead, knotting it loosely at the back. "Not an exact match, but recognizable. Care to check it out?"

They moved to stand before the big gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace, expressing mutual delight in Jack's embellishments. Captain Sparrow struck a roguish pose, smirking to show the gold teeth. "Been a while now, since I've last seen him!"

"Then you must be short of mirrors. I've seen him every day for the past eight months."

Jack seemed inclined to regard that view for a long while. James might have too, if not for what he saw in the reflected clock face.

"I do need to get dressed now. East 15th Street is a fair ways from here. Try not to tear the place down while I'm gone."

James returned to his room, where he took a quick shower before putting on his dark blue wool suit. Jack had given it to him when he'd gone to take the Coast Guard entrance exams. It was of good quality, though not the priciest. "Ye'll want ta look professional, but not like some pampered git who's never had dirt under his nails." The look was right for attending a Meeting, too- formal, not ostentatious.

As he brushed his own hair, James regarded his image with real satisfaction. For some while now he'd been seeing a 21st century man whenever he studied his reflection. It gave him even more gratification than passing those exams.

Preparations complete, James fetched his winter hat from a drawer and returned to the central room. To his surprise, Jack was waiting beside the exit door, in a tailored gray suit with his hair neatly fastened back. Looking entirely like an adult.

His tone was almost shy. "I'd like to come with you, if you wouldn't mind."

James regarding him skeptically. "Why do you want to do that?"

"I've spent a plentiful number of Christmases on my onesies, mate. Ain't really in the mood ta do that this year." He raised one palm. "I swear, on pain of death, I'll be on me best behavior."

"You've just underscored how unfamiliar you are with the Society of Friends. Quakers don't believe in taking oaths; they think a person's word should suffice."

"All the more reason I should go, then. I'll learn things."

"You do understand, you must refrain from any flirting whatsoever. Serious or non. Even if the prettiest women on earth are there."

Jack shrugged. "Fer this one occasion, I'll pretend I'm a eunuch."

"Very well, then- you're welcome to come."

Sparrow brightened visibly, scooping their coats from the pegs and handing one to James. "For near-future reference; do Quakers do anything ta commemorate New Years Day?"

"Nothing comparable to your description of the Times Square revelries. The Friends believe it's an occasion for reflecting on lessons learned through the previous year, and contemplating what possibilities the coming one holds." As they put on their outerwear, James considered, again, that not all their future possibilities were necessarily positive. And again, found consolation in knowing neither of them would have to deal with it alone.

"Maybe within the next year, you'll get a chance to sail on the Eagle- the Coast Guard's mascot rigged ship. You might even make Captain!" Sparrow speculated as he turned the doorknob.

"If that happens, Jack, I shall certainly give you a ride on it."

"I'll hold ya to that!"

They smacked each other's palms as they left the room.

---

FINIS

---

Note: East 15th Street in New York City is the location of the Manhattan Meeting House of the Religious Society of Friends (the original name for Quakers.)


	39. Auld Lang Syne

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney

--

"Fifty nine! Fifty eight! Fifty Seven...!"

"Aren't you starting rather early?"

"As has been mentioned, James, it's a Times Square tradition ta loudly count down the year's closing seconds."

"I believe that's through the final minute. Which is still two minutes away, minus a few..."

"What? Better talk louder!"

"I said, it's still almost three minutes to midnight! I'd rather not spend the whole interval reciting numbers."

"Verra well; we can fill it with small talk instead. How are the driving lessons goin'?"

"According to Ms. Ruegger, I'm progressing well. Though I am having..."

"Ms Ruegger, eh? What's she look like?"

"That's 'Ms' as in 'Mrs.', and she's hardly your type- far too mature and businesslike. As I was saying: I'm having some difficulty getting used to the steering. Specifically, to how much more readily a car responds to a turn of the wheel, than a ship does."

"Aye; I had ta make the same adjust... Bloody hell! I'll thank ye not ta blast that pestilent kazoo into me ear, ya feckless neanderthal!"

"Just back off a ways, mister... That should suffice. I don't think he did it deliberately, Jack. The man's obviously well into his cups."

"'Then I suppose I must find it in me heart to forgive him. 'Tis New Years Eve!"

"Yes, I've gathered as much."

"Did you know, cousin Norrington, the modern tradition is, right after the clock strikes midnight, ya turn to your nearest an' dearest, and..."

"Don't even think about it, Sparrow."

"Wouldn't dream of it! But mayhaps, you could consent to acceptin' a manly hug? Not like it'll attract much notice in this crowd."

"I daresay! Very well: one brief, decorous hug."

"We have an accord! An' just in time- the ball's startin' ta come down!"

"Really! I'd never have noticed."

"Fifty one! Fifty! Do join in James- that's the whole point ta bein' here in person! Forty five! Forty four!"

"I'll start at twenty."

"What?"

"At Twenty, Jack!"

"Thirty nine! I can't believe a proper Commodore of the Fleet lacks sufficient vocal fortitude ta complete the whole roster! Thirty five!"

"I'd prefer to save my voice until closer to the end. It's obviously going to require the fullest volume I can muster, to be heard among this cacophony!"

"What?"

"I'LL START AT TWENTY."

"Suit yerself, Commodore! Twenty four! Twenty three! Twenty two! Twenty one! YER ON!"

"Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen..."

"Louder, James! Pretend yer givin' topside orders in a storm!"

"It's most fortuitous, that that isn't our actual situation- I've not been through many storms this clamorous! Thirteen! Twelve!"

"Much More Better! TEN! NINE!"

"EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX! FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE....!"

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" *smack*

"GAughH! Sparrow, I said no kissing!"

"Did not! You only implied!"

"You knew very well what I...!"

"But it'll benefit you anyways- that's fer good fortune in the comin' year! May you have a most productive an' happy one, James Lysander Norrington!"

"The same to you, whether you deserve it or not. Mendacious rogue!"

---

FINIS

---

(To clarify: I'm not planning on turning this into a Sparrington fic. Jack was just being his usual mischievous self.)


	40. Til We Meet Again

'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

---

It was dusk, and Jack was on the north beach of his little island, ankle-deep in the surf, rum bottle in hand. An orange-and-charcoal sunset glowed in the west, but his gaze was fixed northwards. Towards New London Connecticut, two thousand miles away, where he and James had parted yesterday.

Sparrow took a swig from the bottle. It was good rum- too bad he wasn't in the best mood to appreciate it. He was, in fact, feeling cold and hollow, as if there were an icy void where his entrails should be. How ridiculous for a temporary separation to affect him so! He'd left many another good companion behind, permanently- he should be accustomed to it by now.

Pestilential, insidiously ingratiating Navyman...

The sun was about to dip below the horizon. Out of long habit, Jack turned to watch. He wondered whether there'd been a green flash, somewhere in the world, when James first arrived here. There certainly should have been.

On this occasion, the bright yellow orb simply dipped from sight. Jack took another swallow of rum and returned his gaze to the northern sky.

But he wasn't really seeing it. His mind's eye was reviewing a not-quite-year-old memory: his first, heart-stopping view of James Norrington in the 21st century. A limp body cocooned in nebulous 'time net'- skin pale between the red-smears, eyes completely blank. Jack had gotten just that glimpse, before the medical apparatuses enveloped the long form. Necessarily, of course- their prompt attentions had recalled the man to life.

Captain Sparrow had been beside the bed four days later, when James finally stirred to consciousness. His first facial expression had been disbelief, followed by brief alarm, then that dazed bewilderment which had persisted for two weeks. Jack well recalled his own relief, when it finally started clearing up... gradually revealing the formidable, steel-spined, oh-so-principled Commodore he remembered.

The next several months had been among Sparrow's happiest. There may have been no rational reason for Norrington's presence to gladden him so, but the pirate had never been one to overanalyze good feelings. There was now a person in the world who knew who he, Jack Sparrow, truly was- that was sufficient explanation for him.

Sparrow started to grin, recollecting memorable moments they'd shared through that interval. James' feigned anger over Jack's appropriation of his wig, not quite obscuring his delight at getting it back. The Navyman's contagious sense of homecoming when he first took the helm of the Lady Buccaneer. That farcical, but invigorating, Miami adventure- the spectacle of James somehow retaining dignity as they struggled out of that muddy canal was worth all the lost swag and soggy clothing.

Sharing wonderment on this very beach, watching a horizon-wide display of leaping manta rays. Basking in the camaraderie of shipmates during the Atlantic crossing. Getting slightly drunk on ale at the Swan Tavern in London (only slightly- James didn't want to risk replaying his rumpot days.) Strolling along the Seine River with two beauteous French filles... James' eyes all aglow, getting his first spotlit view of the Eiffel Tower. Though that was but a foreshadowing of his profound joy a month later, upon learning he'd been accepted into the Coast Guard Academy.

Most recently, that delightful holiday excursion to New York City. Even the Society of Friends meeting they'd attended on Christmas Day had been rather enjoyable. Jack had gleaned useful insights into the shaping of James' character from that mercifully to-the-point sermon, about how the holiday's 'good will towards men' ought to apply throughout the year.

There'd been a coffee-and-cookie social afterward. Sparrow, mindful of his promise to behave, had initially kept a distance from the pair of teenage girls who so clearly wanted to engage him in conversation. James had sidled beside him and murmured, "You can talk to them, Jack; just don't flirt"- obviously unaware how inevitably the one segued into the other whenever Jack exchanged words with a comely female. He'd navigated that shoal by pretending the lasses were whelps. Soon enough, he was regaling the young women, and a sizable portion of the room, with a rousing yarn about cursed treasure, buccaneers who became skeletons in the moonlight, and resourceful heroes who bested them. On the walk back to their hotel, Norrington commended Sparrow on his gentlemanly conduct. In the future, he could accompany James to a Meeting whenever he wished.

Never in a million years would the pirate have expected such an invitation to gratify him so.

And now, a month later, James was gone- starting his training at the USCG Academy- and Jack was missing him terribly. Absurdly so, considering how recently they'd buried their original hostilities. Hadn't that bloody Navyman once come within a hair's-breadth of hanging him?

Though, that hadn't been Norrington himself, so much as the Law he upheld. Sparrow had realized that from the start. It was why Jack had taken only minor vengeance when the fallen Commodore had joined his crew, and had eventually come to regret even that. Their mutual offenses were now too distant for any trace of resentment to linger. Even a pirate could forgive, given sufficient time.

The Captain kicked at an approaching wave, scattering foam to catch the last bits of daylight. James had certainly proved himself worthy of that forgiveness. Snarky and pompous as he could be, he'd also provided the best companionship Jack had known since Joshamee's passing. Norrington might actually possess even greater loyalty. In compliance with the Code, Gibbs had left Sparrow behind on one occasion. Jack couldn't imagine James Lysander Norrington ever doing such a thing.

Except, that he might...

A possibility Jack preferred not to think about raised it's disquieting head. As of their most recent conversation, James still hadn't made up his mind whether to reap the benefits of the Aqua de Vida. Perhaps, like certain others, he'd opt for a normal lifespan and a normal death, leaving Sparrow with nothing but memories of him.

That prospect was piercing as any krakken's fang.

Sparrow took a double gulp of rum. If that bloody Naval toff decided against... Jack just might forgo any further visits to the Fountain himself. At this particular moment, that option looked preferable to interminable loneliness.

But again, he had to chide his own foolishness. James could decide the other way, too. How ludicrous to be making such drastic plans, this far ahead of time... and yet...

It was a relief to be interrupted by an approaching combination of sounds; large bare steps, and the buzz from a poorly insulated earphone. The ex-pirate looked over his shoulder, meeting soulful eyes studying him from a broad, bearded face.

"You okay, Mr. Jack?"

It was pointless to spout obviously untrue denials. "Nothin' ta concern you, Mr. Boyer. Jus' feelin' a bit scuppered tonight."

Hennrick Boyer grunted, stepping beside him. The pale wire running from his ear to his portable CD player gleamed like a long scar. "We miss Mr. Norrington, too. But very good that he's well enough to be on his own again."

His employer still looked mournful. Hennrick's broad mouth quirked. "Maybe you worry that, after he graduates, he'll come back to arrest you?"

That made Jack smile a bit. "Cigar smuggling's not high on the Coast Guard's priority list. They won't be wastin' theer highly trained Investigators on the likes o' me."

The two shared a fond glance. Besides a sense of humor, Hennrick and his similarly-built wife, Aiyda, possessed a trait Jack had recently learned to respect; unshakable honesty. It was why he'd entrusted them with certain responsibilities he'd not leave in just anyone's hands.

The Boyers were an ordinary couple from Port-au-Prince, who'd tended other people's homes and gardens there, until they'd saved up enough to open a small general store. That establishment hadn't made much profit, but at least let them be their own bosses. Regrettably, their adolescent son, Agwe, made a mistake which had forced them to flee store and home, taking only their four offspring and what could be carried in six plastic garbage bags. On the Port-au-Prince waterfront, the family had begged for passage aboard Jack's yacht. Jack had consented, realizing these folks must be desperate to risk bringing their kids- including a pretty teenage girl- onto a boat full of unknown sailors.

Once the ship was at sea, Sparrow had insisted they tell their story. It seemed Agwe, ignoring his father's warnings, had agreed to do a job for a known local drug lord. He'd been instructed to hand-deliver a package to another dealer, but had been waylaid and robbed en route. Agwe knew if he didn't make full reimbursement for the valuable parcel (which he couldn't), his family would pay a horrific price.

Jack, mindful that he'd made some stupid decisions himself, thought it unfair these people should have their lives ruined by one bad choice. So he offered to hire the Boyers as caretakers for the house and grounds on his island. He could provide quality housing and better-than-average wages until they'd earned enough to buy another store, someplace far from Haiti.

Agwe and Loufie, the teenage son and daughter, had since relocated to Montserrat. The adults, with younger children Bijou and Zac, were still here. Their salaries earned them more than their store had, so, for the sake of their kids, Aiyda and Hennrick were willing to postpone autonomy. They appreciated Mr. Jack's fairness, as he appreciated their reliability, but employer-employee relationships had built-in limitations. They could never let him far into their world, and of course he had to limit their access to his.

At least Jack and Hennrick could share this moment on the beach, watching the first eastern stars come out. It was quiet enough that Sparrow could hear what Boyer was listening to, over his earphone. A Cyndi Lauper classic. Jack softly sang along, to what he hoped was a premonition of things to come:

_'After my picture fades_  
_And darkness has turned to gray,_  
_Watching through win-dows_  
_You're wondering if I'm OK,_  
_Secrets, stolen, from deep inside,_  
_The drum beats out of time-_

_If you're lost, you can look_  
_And you will find me,_  
_Time after time._  
_If you fall, I will catch you_  
_I'll be wait-ing,_  
_Time after time._

_You said, go slow,_  
_I fall behind,_  
_The second hand unwinds-_

_If you're lost, you can look_  
_And you will find me,_  
_Time after time._  
_If you fall, I will catch you-_  
_I will be waiting!_  
_Time after time._

_Time after time,_

_Time after time,_

_Time after time,_

_Time after time...'_

As both voices faded to whispers, Hennrick stirred. "Well. Suppose I should go to bed soon. Have to get up early, to scrape the _Rum Burner._"

"Sweet dreams, mate. And same to the Mrs," Jack offered. The big Haitian nodded and strolled off towards the buildings.

Sparrow finished his rum. Eyeing the empty bottle, he considered chasing it with another. But he decided against. Getting sloshed wasn't the sort of tribute James would appreciate.

Minutes passed, and the evening become uncomfortably chilly. The pirate started back to his house... the distance seemed longer than usual. Inside, the solitude felt oppressive. Jack decided he might as well turn in, too.

Figuring he'd swum recently enough to skip the shower, Sparrow proceeded to his bedroom and wearily got undressed. He was about to turn off the light, when a metallic gleam snagged his eye. From a partly-open bedside drawer, golden fabric winked. His Christmas gift from James.

Sparrow debated a moment, before taking out the pajamas and shrugging them on. Not without grumbling a bit, about uptight Commodores and their silly sense of propriety. But as he settled into bed, the caress of satin made him sigh. James had obviously selected this present with great care, taking both appearance and comfort into account. Bloody Norrington didn't do anything by halves.

/ 'Suppose 'twould be appropriate ta express my appreciation, the next time I see 'im. Which won't be that long. That blighter's persistent... can't get shed o' him fer any length of time. /

That thought was as soothing as the silken fabric. Captain Sparrow snuggled under the warm covers, feeling reassured.

As he dropped off, Jack had a momentary vision. A starlit dormitory, two thousand miles away. On a balcony, a familiar tall figure stood, thoughtfully regarding the dark horizon.

Gazing southwards...

---

**FINIS**

**---**

This story continues through several sequel fics, starting with 'Abducted', followed by 'Conversations With Murphy', 'The Vampire Mission', 'Rare Gifts', and the ongoing 'Mission: Improbable.'


End file.
